Fiction

By Geoffrey Gaskill. The early evening sun streamed into the room. Outside, the jungle of a garden scratched up against the window as if trying to break in. This was Edith’s favourite room, the room in which she’d spent some … Continued

By Geoffrey Gaskill. The windmill man haunted Stanley. He didn’t know his name. He’d never seen him before. He never saw him after. But became more real than his father. The windmill man had fallen. It was kind of symbolic … Continued

By Geoffrey Gaskill. In the headlights I saw him. It wasn’t him so much that caught my eye, as the manner of his walking along that road. Night time it might have been but even a casual observer could not … Continued

By Geoffrey Gaskill. The place looked no more than a ruined graveyard. The broken teeth of headstones sprouted higgledy-piggledy from the turf threatening as though wanting to devour the church walls that scowled above them. There was no roof. The … Continued

By Geoffrey Gaskill. I’d never heard of Gentle Annie till my father talked of her. I thought he might have been referring to a distant relative, a cousin maybe who had died young but lived on in family memory. Gentle … Continued

By Geoffrey Gaskill. It wasn’t always like this. Before her, he believed he could have looked his God in the face on Judgement Day and not felt the weight of his sins. He’d fallen when he took a woman they … Continued

By Geoffrey Gaskill. She wasn’t the most striking person I’d ever seen. It proved you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. She was new to the class and when she walked in she had a certain swagger, a je-ne-sais-pas … Continued