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Guilty. Content Warning.
The essence of it is the same but I can see that it is different. The curtains in the front room, for starters. We had a more sedate check pattern and I can see that these are some sort of modern floral, or maybe, Cath Kidston? Either way, they are cheerful and light. And the front door is one of those PVC affairs with the mock grain, that try to look like wood up close. A cheerful blue. Looks smarter and will need less maintenance but, in my opinion, appears false in the context of the Victorian terrace for which it is the mouthpiece. The garden at the front looks good. They've used it to grow their own produce so it's alive. Beans clambering up stakes with dots of red and the yellow blooms of courgettes. There's a nice feel to the place. Mind you, when we lived there, it wasn't lacking care. To all outward appearances, it looked a happy home. And I thought it was but now, having moved out, I keep wondering if it ever was.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
The Artist's Monologue. Content Warning.
I'm afraid I am going to have to remove your head now but don't worry. I'm going to make a clean cut. Because your body is going to be used again and we want the new head that we put on your body to be a seamless fit, don't we? Now, I'll need the sharpest tool...
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
The Books That Moved Me (Vol.2)
I know. The book is called The Golden Mole and yet, the picture I have chosen is quite clearly of a golden seahorse. Firstly, no picture of golden moles in Unsplash. Secondly, it doesn't matter that it's a picture of a seahorse and not a golden mole because the seahorse is still representative of the remarkable creatures which Rundell chooses to highlight in her excellent book, The Golden Mole, subtitled And Other Living Treasure.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in BookClub
Into the rocks
The rocks had manifested themselves as shimmering blurs in the heat and he had had to convince himself that they were real before heading in their direction. It was slow progress, if it was progress at all. His legs were heavy, weighted with exhaustion and lack of hope and drained by the unending heat.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
Dolly and the doll
As the figure went to disappear through the gate, Dolly, watching from behind a bush, gasped. She could see what he held, she thought, and despite her fear at being discovered, had followed him to find his lair and report him. She was no hero but she was a budding detective.
By Rachel Deeming3 years ago in Fiction
