Friday, 9 September 2011


I have found some other victims (writers), willing to contribute to a stream of tales that I am beginning tonight.

Please do not be shy - anyone can contribute,  just add your tale or paragraph or mere sentence to the comment box and I will add it as the lead to the next day's blog (unless you do not want that).

The children are playing in the hallway again. I can hear the gentle thump, thump, thump of the ball (red) bouncing down the hall between them. The hall is glorious and long, as halls  always are in these stately old houses, with embossed wainscoting covering the bottom third of the walls, and ancient delicately decorated wallpaper running up to the picture rail, with the ceiling a full two feet above that. 

If I step out into the hallway now, I will see the children, a boy dressed in short pants of the turn of the last century, the girl in a fluffy white dress and apron.  A large bow ties her apron at the back. They will not notice me and will be laughing gaily at each other.

When I turn to look at the little girl, the little boy will disappear, and when I try to see where he has gone, the little girl will disappear also.  It might be months before I see them there again. 

1 comment:

  1. Anonymous said...
    Sometimes, in the late evening, usually when twilight was just beginning to cast its eerie veil over the day, I would hear the clatter of hooves outside, a sharp sound like flint against rock, and I would look out the upstairs window, down to the street below.

    At first, I was surprised to see the roof of the ornate black carriage, the coachman with his top-hat and the spirited horses straining against the reins, their delicate heads decorated with black plumes.