Love all Liane Moriarty’s books, but this one stayed with me for a long time.

The last bus home left hours ago, before the haar crawled in. Stubble crunches beneath my boots. Beyond the field and drop of the cliffs, a lonely foghorn lows. Cold mist claws at my cheeks. I whistle a desolate tune.
A pheasant screams.
I stop.
The brittle snap of stalks draws closer. #WriteCBC

Congratulations, Chris. 🥳 This story gets me every time. A brilliant piece. Glad it’s found a great home.

Dark glasses hide my shiner as I limp towards the case that entombs her, wincing as school kids jostle to see the mystical Feejee Mermaid. They gasp at the needle-sharp barbs that twist along her spine. Her scaled tail curls, black as a sea devil.
I bow, and beg her to conjure a tempest. #WriteCBC

Fresh tar shimmered beyond the veranda.
'Darlene!' Her mother waved from the bungalow opposite.
'Drink up,' I said.
Darlene's florid face sweated like the jug on the table.
'What's in it?' she slurred, slurping the dregs.
'Vodka.'
Darlene stood, quivering like heat as her mother glared. #WriteCBC