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‘That’s Mother,’ Paul said. ‘Ready for her inspection.’ The wrapped gift—a silk scarf—felt suddenly heavy in Dee’s hands. ‘Hello, Mrs Tayler. It’s lovely to meet you.” A pause. “And you, Dee. But do call me Abigail.’ Her smile was warm; her gaze cooler. Dee knew she’d never say Abigail. #WriteCBC
November 6, 2025 at 5:13 PM
‘That’s Mother,’ Paul said. ‘Ready for her inspection.’ The wrapped gift—a silk scarf—felt suddenly heavy in Dee’s hands. ‘Hello, Mrs Tayler. It’s lovely to meet you.” A pause. “And you, Dee. But do call me Abigail.’ Her smile was warm; her gaze cooler. Dee knew she’d never say Abigail. #WriteCBC
From the rafters came a faint tap-tapping, as if someone was up there pouring water, trying to bring the cabin back to life. But it was only the wind, mocking his thirst. The place was barren. Curtains sagged, brittle as parchment, ash lay on a child’s shoe. Relics of the before-time. #WriteCBC
October 2, 2025 at 4:31 PM
From the rafters came a faint tap-tapping, as if someone was up there pouring water, trying to bring the cabin back to life. But it was only the wind, mocking his thirst. The place was barren. Curtains sagged, brittle as parchment, ash lay on a child’s shoe. Relics of the before-time. #WriteCBC
#WriteCBC
The bell of the Duomo tolled as she eased the drawer open by its brass pull. Tucked among silks, a single glove, the worn kid-skin still shaped by Piero’s fingers. She slipped her hand inside, heart quickening at the memory of his smile, of secret laughter whispering through the palazzo.
The bell of the Duomo tolled as she eased the drawer open by its brass pull. Tucked among silks, a single glove, the worn kid-skin still shaped by Piero’s fingers. She slipped her hand inside, heart quickening at the memory of his smile, of secret laughter whispering through the palazzo.
September 5, 2025 at 12:04 AM
#WriteCBC
The bell of the Duomo tolled as she eased the drawer open by its brass pull. Tucked among silks, a single glove, the worn kid-skin still shaped by Piero’s fingers. She slipped her hand inside, heart quickening at the memory of his smile, of secret laughter whispering through the palazzo.
The bell of the Duomo tolled as she eased the drawer open by its brass pull. Tucked among silks, a single glove, the worn kid-skin still shaped by Piero’s fingers. She slipped her hand inside, heart quickening at the memory of his smile, of secret laughter whispering through the palazzo.
#WriteCBC
A knock—short and business like—and Enid opened the door
She thought she was seeing things: an RAF officer—buttons polished so bright she could see her own face in them.
'Wing Commander Fox,' he said crisply
A wing commander, was it? Fancy. But Enid didn’t like the set of his mouth.
A knock—short and business like—and Enid opened the door
She thought she was seeing things: an RAF officer—buttons polished so bright she could see her own face in them.
'Wing Commander Fox,' he said crisply
A wing commander, was it? Fancy. But Enid didn’t like the set of his mouth.
June 5, 2025 at 4:47 PM
#WriteCBC
A knock—short and business like—and Enid opened the door
She thought she was seeing things: an RAF officer—buttons polished so bright she could see her own face in them.
'Wing Commander Fox,' he said crisply
A wing commander, was it? Fancy. But Enid didn’t like the set of his mouth.
A knock—short and business like—and Enid opened the door
She thought she was seeing things: an RAF officer—buttons polished so bright she could see her own face in them.
'Wing Commander Fox,' he said crisply
A wing commander, was it? Fancy. But Enid didn’t like the set of his mouth.