I have just had six short prose pieces published in Junction Box 12. It’s a great issue with excellent contributions from Dorothy Lehane, Chris McCabe, and Peter Larkin (among others). My thanks to the editor, Lyndon Davies for including my work. Here’s one of my micro-fictions from the journal:
What Claire and Sophie said to each other while they were closeted in Sophie’s bedroom remains a mystery. Something vitally important to the unfolding of this story I suspect, though I can’t be sure. When they came out of the room they were unusually animated, and their conversation struck me straight away as artificial. It was as though they were playacting, performing a charade for my benefit with the intention of throwing me off the scent. Are they aware of my eavesdropping? I have recorded every word of their conversations since, but they give no clue as to what passed between them that afternoon. They avoid any discussion of matters of importance, offering nothing of psychological interest. It’s as though they have entered into a pact to keep me in ignorance of their secrets, speaking only of the most trivial matters when in my presence, subjects too dull to be even worth repeating. Are they deliberately thwarting my attempts to bring this narrative to a satisfactory conclusion?