Little Smudgy Victories

The creato-sphere is currently flooded with information about staying creative during a pandemic. Different phrases, all meaning ‘be kind to yourself’, are washing around our knees and you know, they’re not wrong. But there is one major thing I’ve done during the pandemic that has helped me to avoid coming to a grinding halt.

I’ve made sure that I have other, easier, things to do that feel like winning. They are all minor things that are not THE NOVEL, but feel like steps forward. On a day where I couldn’t concentrate enough to write, there were things I could do that were positive. For me, a new writer, these things have been:

  1. Learning things. I’m doing Sophie Hannah’s ‘Dream Author’ programme, which is more about mindset than writing itself. There are webinars to watch, workbooks to do, small missions she sends us and podcasts to listen to. There’s no pressure at all to do it; this is a buffet from which each participant can pick the tastiest morsels. But you don’t have to be on a paid course. You can make your own from the podcasts, webinars and writing promps that are all over the place.
  2. Setting up instagram. I’ve been meaning to look into this for ages but I’ve just never got round to it. It was fun, easy and ticked off something that’s been on the list for a long time. This also meant that taking part in author insta felt like progress too. I could put a picture up, like a few things, comment on something and hey, progress had been made that day.
  3. Knitting. No really. Making something easy that quickly produced visible progress and had no pressure attached just kept my creative side feeling satisfied (and also gave me something to post on instagram for a double win!) For others it might be colouring or gardening or photography. The point is that all creativity is positive. I may not have reached my writing goals, but I do have a jumper.

And I say I didn’t achieve my writing goals – I didn’t because they were quite ambitious and then a pandemic happened – but I did get about 20,000 words of my novel written during lockdown, partly because I didn’t push too hard.

So, yes, be kind to yourself. And a really good way to do that is to find those little smudgy victories.

The Pandemic in the Library

Well, what a year. And it’s only May. Although the virus affects the respiratory system, for me it’s hit me in the brain most. All I’ve suffered so far is an irritating cough that is probably nothing to do with the Big Bad Virus and for those of us with vulnerable loved ones or whose own health is wonky, we can only hope that the worst we suffer is a bit of mental fog. Nonetheless, many of us turned to our comforting books, only to find our tastes changed in strange ways, our concentration in fragments and our emotions in a churn.

At first I could hardly read at all. I paddled about in social media and the news with a blank tiredness. A good book tugs on your feelings, but my feelings didn’t want to be tugged, especially not by my usual fare of crime and horror. I found I could just about stomach a Poirot while doing some gentle work in the garden. I tried non-fiction as it doesn’t always have the direct emotional engagement of fiction, but I didn’t have the brain power for it. Not to mention the fact my current NF read is Queer London by Matt Houlbrook; hardly a light and unemotional topic.

So, back to fiction. But the last thing I wanted to read was the psychological thriller I was halfway through. Eventually, I remembered a middle-grade book written by a friend which I’d been planning on reading. It was funny and sweet and dealt with Victorians and circuses which are my jam, even in a kid’s book (The Son of the Circus by E.L. Norry). After that, I reached for a delightfully fluffy romance (Knit One, Girl Two by Shira Glassman).

Before the pandemic I had been working through Ellis Peters’ Cadfael books and back I went to the monastery garden. By the time I’d finished two of them, and had sat in the sun conversing with Cadfael for long enough, I was almost back to normal and ventured on an unfamiliar crime novel. Heading for a book that looked like it had a fun angle with an elephant sidekick for our hero, I chose the first in the Inspector Chopra series by Vaseem Khan. It was an enjoyable choice.

Now, having recently finished M.W. Craven’s Puppet Show and almost immediately moved onto the second in the series (Black Summer), I am back in the gore and misery again.

This has highlighted for me how much I read for the emotional experience. It’s a pet theory of mine that the genres we’re drawn to is partly about which emotions we enjoy having evoked in us by another’s words. Usually I like to be scared, puzzled, horrified, but reading the news provided an overdose of that.

From discussions with booky friends, my reaction is common; several of them are reading shorter forms, or less dark material than usual. Others have been reading voraciously, hiding from a frightening reality in literary concoctions, dreams of romance, different times or places or fantasy worlds. Some readers have changed genre; either turning bravely to books set in plagues and apocalypses, or away from it all to more comforting titles. Some, having found themselves with lots of free time, have taken the opportunity to wallow in their reading.  Perhaps these are the lucky readers with calmer, less anxious personalities. Or perhaps they are just expressing the anxieties differently.

These personal reactions tell us about the times, but also about ourselves and what reading means to us. If you’re struggling to read at the moment, it can help to think about why you read. What do you get from the words? What do you need from the words? The answer to that question can guide us towards the right book when the world is upside down.

Petal Fall

The spring sun is warm on my back. Not quite warm enough for sandals but I’d chosen a flowy skirt that blows and hustles against my legs. The grass here is smooth and green, the gravel paths weed-free, the topiary neat and clipped but the garden is silent; there are no birds, no sound of a gardener’s shears, no children running. The box has been clipped recently and the pungent cat-urine smell of it hangs in the air.

I turn a corner and find myself walking alongside a high red-brick wall. I catch the merest floral scent and look around. Here, there are pyracanthas trained against the wall, neat strips of spiky green that are not allowed to blossom or develop their exuberant orange berries. I draw in a breath that feels tight, stifled as if I’m the one being trimmed and still there is that faint scent.

Half-way along the wall, I find a scruffy old door with layers of peeling paint and grey old wood beneath. It is just ajar. I gently push the door with one finger as if less contact makes it less a trespass. Through the door are cherry trees in full bloom. The ground underneath the trees is dense with weeds and brambles. The trees themselves are neglected, but the petals spiral in the sun.

The sound of footsteps in the distance hurry me through the door and I push it closed behind me. Then the brisk, purposeful crunch-crunch-crunch passes by along the gravel. I release my breath.

The sunlight through the dense petals gives the light a fairy-tale hue. The brambles arc like strained barbed wire by the narrow path and the branches of the trees are twisted, distorted by time and disease, and over it all, this pale pink light and the faint scent and underneath the smell of petals, there is something of rotting leaves and decay, a bright note of death. I am drawn on by the gentle curve of the path and a reluctance to return to the insipid place behind me.

Ahead of me, something lies on the path. I step towards it, pulling my skirt from the grip of a thorn. The petals fall into a crimson pool of blood, scattering around the body of a little girl, her hair askew, the pink confetti landing on her pale cheeks as if it had stolen the colour from her.

A swirl of dizziness heaves me sideways and I grab a tree branch to stop myself falling and when I take my hand away, it is covered in blood. Her blood. I back away, wiping it on my blouse, my eyes fixed on the girl. Once she is hidden by the curve of the path, I turn and run to the door, my skirt tangling around my knees.

When I reach the door, I scrabble at it. There is no handle in the blank face of splintered wood and I cry out for help. My voice carries up and over the wall into a deadened silence of the other side; no birds, no chatter, no little girl’s laughter.


Copyright © Elizabeth Cutts August 2019


This was originally written for an assignment for the NCW crime course I did recently. It could turn out to be the beginning of something larger, or perhaps it’ll stay as just a snippet.



The man in the hospital bed is unconscious – sedatives according to the nurse – and I find I’m half glad he’s alive after all. It was a moment of madness, of sheer rage, and then I’d done it and I couldn’t go back.

I’d recognised the little scrote straight off. He was driving along on his whiny little motorbike smashing the wing mirrors off cars for the sheer hell of it. Jake Thornton. Jake is a small-time dealer, thief, vandal and, I am one-hundred-and-ten-percent sure, even though I can’t prove it, beater and general abuser of women. He probably kicks puppies for fun; he’s that kind of scum. And when I saw him, driving along, destroying people’s hard-earned property, I just lost it.

I accelerated towards him, the engine cheering me on, a sort of hot, rushing sound in my ears and then a jarring thud. He flew through the air like a ragdoll, arms flailing madly. He landed on the road in a messy heap as his bike skittered along the tarmac. I floored it again, bump bump, over him, and I was off, gone. Half an hour later the car was in flames.

A doctor steps into the room and stops, a little surprised to see me.

‘When can I speak to him?’ I ask.

‘We’ll call you.’

‘He’s out of danger?’

The doc nods, picks up Jake’s chart and starts to read. He wants me to go. I ought to go.

‘He’s one of our frequent fliers,’ I say. Jake’s pimply face is greyish and feeble looking against the hospital sheets. ‘Wonder if the little shit will have learnt his lesson.’

The doc shrugs. ‘Do they ever, officer?’

‘Like hell,’ I say. ‘Better get back to the station. Got to report my own car stolen today, can you believe it?’

The doc gives a short, humourless laugh, and shakes his head in sympathy. The doors slap shut behind me.


Copyright © Elizabeth Cutts August 2019


This brief story started life as an exercise for the NCW crime writing course I took recently.


‘They ain’t getting me out of here, Sarah. Never!’ John was ranting on his favourite topic. Didn’t it occur to him that, in his refusal to leave the condemned flats, he was trapping her too? As she locked the door behind them, rain slapped at the window at the end of the hallway.

I hate him, she realised. She removed the key from the lock and examined this revelation as she started towards the stairs, him blathering on behind her. Eight floors and the lift not working. Well, why would they mend it?

When did she start hating him? When the letter came and he settled in for a fight like an angry rat in a trap? Or before that when he quit his job because the new foreman, well, forewoman actually, had told him what was what. Or even earlier?

She stopped dead and he nearly walked into her. At the wedding. Yes. Then. She had thought she looked like a beautiful princess version of herself. She had glowed; the white lace shifting and swaying, reflecting light up into her face and making her hair shine. He’d said to his mate, ‘Put a bow on a pig, it’s still a pig, isn’t it?’ When he saw she’d heard, he shrugged and took another beer. His mate had looked embarrassed, at least.

‘What are you stopped for?’ he asked.

She opened the door onto the stairwell which still smelt of piss and old concrete, even with the flats almost empty. He shouldered through before her.

‘Did it ever occur to you that I’m trapped here too?’

John turned on the top step, surprised anger on his face.

‘You what?’

‘You’re a selfish prick, John.’

‘Fuck off, we’re staying and that’s final.’ His face had gone an unpleasant blotchy red and yellow, scrunched up in anger and, what was it? Disgust? Yes, that wrinkling of the nose. Disgust. A cold, calm rage swept through Sarah.

She shoved him hard in the chest.

His look of surprise almost made her laugh, and then the flailing of his arms as he fell backwards and the crack of his head against the concrete stair edge pulled a disbelieving giggle from her and then she couldn’t stop. It was a sort of hysteria, she thought, as irresistible as vomiting. She had to sit on the top step to calm herself.

A last choked gasp escaped into the stale air from John’s slack mouth. He lay in the corner of the stairwell, blood seeping around his head.

He looked dead but she ought to check. She went down, her legs wobbling, and felt for his pulse. None. The laughter, or perhaps nausea, threatened to bubble up again. For a moment she thought about CPR, about paramedics and flashing blue lights, about stern policemen with notebooks. That could wait.

She turned and ran down the stairs, her feet clattering echoes up into the space until she burst out of the door at the bottom into the rain. She was free. Her heart fluttered in her chest and her breath came in gulps as the rain battered the top of her head and streamed down her face. The laughter escaped again because her chest didn’t have space for the joy alongside the terror. The sound of it bounced around the grey skies, the weeds and concrete until someone on the next street, waiting for a bus, smiled at the sound.


Copyright © Elizabeth Cutts August 2019


This is a slightly expanded version of a story written for my NCW crime writing course with Julia Crouch.

Exit Only

She wrenched awake. Blinding sun streamed through a crack in the curtains. The sheets coiled damply and she struggled to escape them. Her mouth stuck to itself and she grimaced and poked her tongue into the crevices in her lips. The smell of bacon hung slack in the air.

‘Hey!’ A voice lifted from the kitchen. ‘Want breakfast?’

She felt her stomach curl and twist, ‘Nah,’ she said. She pulled her clothes on over her sticky skin. ‘Thanks,’ she added, walking past the kitchen door.

The front door slammed behind her, cutting off a question. Another morning, another exit.


Copyright © Elizabeth Cutts March 2015


Written for the 100 word flash fiction challenge on Chuck Wendig’s blog. Definitely a bit quick and dirty. But fun!

The Hanged Man

Lana walked along the street two paces behind Cria. She jogged for a couple of steps to catch up with her employer and fall into step alongside her. They were both sweating and the black cobbles of the road radiated the morning’s heat along with the tang of horse dung baking on the stones which gave spice to the smell of a city full of moderately filthy people. Lana eyed Cria’s lightweight grey robe with a certain envy and, not for the first time, wondered whether breeches and boots were really the practical choice in the summer.

The street was one of those streets that didn’t go from anywhere in particular to anywhere else in particular and so, despite being in the prosperous part of the Citizen’s quarter and quite near the market, it was only moderately busy.

The landlord of the Black Horse Inn propped his doors open as they walked past and several people casually sauntered into the pub, pretending that they hadn’t been waiting for the moment since sun-up.

When they reached the largest house on the street Cria stepped back to look up at it causing a carrier with a great pack on his back to swear and dodge her. The timber framing of the house was carved with the symbols of prosperity and protection that would usually be found on a rich merchant’s home.

‘Hmm,’ said Cria. ‘The carvings are the bare minimum for the magic to work.’

Lana saw that Cria was right; the carvings had no elaboration, no flourishes, as if the carver had been told exactly what was wanted and that he wouldn’t be paid for a single extra chisel stroke. She saw that most of the top storey windows, usually the servants’ rooms in a prosperous house, were dusty and not curtained. She wondered whether the owner was a miser or just running out of cash.

A boy carrying three large fine white loaves on a tray came up the street, his tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth as he carefully negotiated the pavement with his precious load. He turned into the archway of the merchant’s house and they followed him through to the courtyard behind to find him carefully backing through a door into the house. They caught a glimpse of a kitchen and a waft of cooking and then the door shut behind him.

Sergeant Luthor of the City Heart guardhouse was leaning against the stable wall. When he saw them he made a comment out of the side of his mouth to the young constable beside him who shifted uncomfortably and gave a faltering laugh. The sergeant shoved his thumbs into his belt and walked forward with a swagger.

‘Well, Truthseeker,’ he said, ‘I think there’s really no need for you to be here.’

Cria gave a brief, hard smile, ‘I’ll take a look anyway, Luthor. Your Captain knows that I like to look at every untimely death and she kindly let me know about this one.’

Luthor clenched his jaw and stood back. He looked at Lana with narrowed eyes as they passed and she saw a disbelieving sneer twitch up the corner of his mouth. A peasant working with the Truthseeker, walking alongside her as if she were an equal, Lana fixed her eyes on the stable ahead of her and ignored his stare.

The ground floor of the stable building contained three stalls with three contented horses and a bay containing a small pony trap of the design common in the city which allowed for it to be carried like a sedan chair over the steps which divided the city.

‘No cart,’ said Lana, noting an empty bay beside the carriage.

‘No,’ said a voice behind them. ‘Ours has been at the wheelwrights for months. Harrion Jennasline preferred to borrow one from a neighbour whenever we needed one, rather than get it fixed quickly.’ They turned to find a stocky young man in a russet red tunic. His black eyebrows joined in a scowl over grey eyes. ‘It was a pain in the arse. Three horses and no cart. Bloody ridiculous.’ It was a well-worn complaint.

‘You are?’ asked Cria.

‘Grenla.’ The young man gave the stiff bow of a citizen. ‘I look after the horses, dogs and all the joinery, metalwork and yardwork of the place.’

‘Who else works here?’

‘There’s me, Niall the cook and housekeeper, Dan the house-youth and Brenda the gardener.’


Grenla sniffed. ‘Horses and gardens he loved, aside from his money of course. He’d spend anything on his horses and garden but everything else had to rub along on small change.’ He sniffed again and, indicating an outbuilding on the opposite side of the courtyard with his thumb added, ‘I’ll be in the workshop if you need me.’ Lana watched as he walked away, glanced over his shoulder at them and shut the door of his workshop behind him.

Cria walked up to the ladder that led up into the loft and started looking closely at it and at the dusty earthen floor around it.

‘That wasn’t there,’ Luthor shouted from the gateway, and started jogging towards them ‘that’s how we can be sure it’s a suicide. He took the loft ladder up there with him. That’s another ladder. The ladder that belongs there has been pulled up after Harrion Jennasline.’

‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Cria and looked up at the Sergeant. She pointed to two deeply worn dents in the floor, closer together than the feet of the ladder which stood there, ‘The ladder which usually stands here is much narrower than this one.’

Luthor stood awkwardly for a moment, shrugged and walked back towards where his constable stood.

Cria started up the ladder and when she reached the opening she carefully examined the rough edges of the hatch. Lana stood at the bottom of the ladder, waiting for Cria to finish whatever she was doing. The sweet smell of hay and horses filled the air and she looked at the ground Cria had been examining. She wondered what the Truthseeker had seen there to catch her attention, to her it was a scuffed mess.

Above her Cria gave a small exclamation and Lana looked up.

‘There is a small amount of blood here on the side opposite to where the ladder leans. A protruding nail has obviously caught someone. It is on the upper edge though so it can’t be that someone hit their head.’ She gazed thoughtfully into space for a moment then gave a shake of her head and continued up into the loft. Lana hurried up after her.

A body wrapped in a shroud lay on the dusty wooden floor, incongruous among the hay and sacks of feed. The end of the rope dangled from a beam and the loft ladder leant into the dusty angle where the roof met the floor. Herbs lay scattered among the dust and scraps of hay that littered the floor around the body. Lana winced at the sight of the herbs; they meant the Deathspeaker had already been and performed the last words ritual.

Cria shouted down the ladder for the sergeant. His head appeared in the opening a few moments later by which time Cria was on her knees looking closely at the dusty floor


‘Did the Deathspeaker report any words from our victim?’ Cria didn’t pause in her examination.

‘Just something about his money. “They’re always after my money,” or something like that anyway.’

‘Thank you. And in the future,’ she raised her voice as Luthor began to leave, ‘let me see the body before the Deathspeaker comes.’

‘Sorry Truthseeker,’ Luthor said heavily, ‘but I didn’t know you were going to waste your time with this. Truthseeker Daleen wouldn’t.’

Once the surly guard had gone back down the ladder Cria turned to the body and unwound the shroud slowly, muttering some words of prayer for the dead man as she did so.

She put the herbs wrapped with him to one side sending a pungent whiff of corpsemint into the air and then she examined his thin, sharp, heavily browed face and the livid red mark around his neck. She lifted his eyelids and looked into his bloodshot grey eyes and looked for his tattoos of which he had only rank and motherline tattoos. When she had turned Harrion onto his face to examine his back she pressed her lips together, frowned and beckoned to Lana and pointed to a lump which had bled a little hidden in his hair. Cria shook her head, rolled him onto his back, replaced the herbs and wrapped him in his shroud again.

Lana picked up the noose from where it had lain on the floor. It had clearly been cut from one of the coils of rope that hung on hooks from the roof and was a competently tied hangman’s noose but otherwise it was fairly unremarkable. She passed it to Cria who glanced at it and turned it over a few times in her hands then put it aside.

A sturdy stool designed to form a short set of steps stood against the back wall and Cria placed it by the opening in the floor and stood on it to get a close look at the pulley just above the loft hatch. Lana saw her reach up and pull something from it and carefully wrap it in a square of linen from her pocket.

‘What’s that?’ Lana asked.

‘Hair.’ Cria said grimly.

‘Oh. So this isn’t suicide?’

‘Not unless the dead man hauled himself up into the loft using the pulley.’

Lana smiled. ‘I’ve seen dead men do stranger things.’ Cria gave her a sharp look and Lana added, ‘but this doesn’t look like magic.’

‘No. Plain, ordinary murder.’ Cria replied and looked around the loft. A large stack of feed bags stood at the back and she walked over to have a look.

Lana followed and ran her hand through the grain in an open bag, ‘This is really high quality feed. Grenla was right about loving his horses more than his people.’

Cria was looking in a nook behind the pile of sacks. She walked to the gable end and opened the shutter to let in some more light and then walked back to the nook.

‘Someone sat here,’ she said.

Lana looked around her tall companion and saw that the straw was flattened. ‘Maybe Grenla comes here to skive off.’

‘Maybe,’ Cria hunkered down into the nook and peered over the tops of the sacks. ‘Not a very comfortable spot for a break. Dark, a bit damp here where the water comes through the tiles. Smells a bit too, since the muck heap is just the other side of the wall. No it is not where I would choose. However, you can see the place that Harrion died from here, and you would not be seen easily either.’

‘That’d reduce the chance of his last words pointing to the murderer.’

Cria nodded, ‘Although, you would be surprised how few murderers think of that. They do it in a rage and then try to cover it up afterwards. Mind you, last words are rarely very intelligible.’ She stood, smoothing down her robes. ‘Right, we had better speak to the other members of the household.’

Down in the courtyard the guards were lounging in the archway where they could watch the people coming and going in the street.

Cria pushed open the back door of the house and they stepped into the large kitchen, filled with the smell of a meaty stew. Copper pans were arrayed on hooks on a wall, their gleaming bottoms shining in the sun from the doorway. Over the fireplace stood a large doughy man with hairy forearms and a white apron bending over the bubbling pot of stew.

The boy they had seen earlier was sat on a bench by the wall. He was busy ramming a sandwich of white bread and meat into his mouth and at their entrance he devoured the last mouthful and slipped out of the room. The three white loaves stood on the wooden table, one substantially demolished. The man stood straight, brushed his hands on his apron and looked at the newcomers and then the loaves.

Cria raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘Well,’ he said, as if explanation was called for, ‘He usually wants me to get the lower grade oat bread, but it’s a -,’ he paused and looked uncomfortable ‘Well, it’s an unusual day.’

Lana couldn’t help but let out a small, incredulous laugh and Cria gave her a quick frown.

The man blushed. ‘I suppose you couldn’t care less about that. Sorry. I’m Niall Smith, cook and housekeeper.’ He gave the deep peasant bow. Lana returned it and Cria gave the small bow of the gentry.

‘Niall,’ Cria began, taking a chair at the wide kitchen table, ‘What can you tell me about your master?’

‘Oh,’ he looked over his shoulder towards the door into the house and then out to the garden as if hoping for escape, ‘well, I’m sad he’s gone, didn’t think he was the sort to do that.’

‘It is alright Niall,’ Cria said, ‘We will not be overheard if that is what you are worried about. I have a mark of the Lawyer’s Silence.’ She turned her head so that the big man could see the magical tattoo curling around her ear among her greying hair.

‘Oh,’ he relaxed, ‘He liked to squeeze every penny until it whined but I figured that’s why he’s a rich man. Lots of people didn’t like him much but he’s never been unkind to me.’ Niall hooked a kettle over the fire and sat his bulk into a wide armed chair that fitted him perfectly. ‘Quite the opposite in some ways. I’d never get a cooks job up with the gentry, but here I do everything, cook, housekeeping, laundry. Up with the gentry, begging your pardon ma’am, I’d be some under-servant boy.’

‘So he is thought worse than he was?’

‘Well, if you’re just looking at the penny pinching he was pretty bad ma’am. But I liked him in his own way. He never had any friends or lovers round, only business people. And some people had better reasons not to like him I guess.’

Cria leaned back in her chair with her long dark fingers resting on the table edge. ‘Oh?’

‘Well, for example the gardener, Brenda, does several of the gardens round here and he really screwed her down on her contract. He pays almost half what the other owners do.’

‘Why didn’t she leave?’

‘He negotiated on behalf of the other owners, got a good price for all of them. Full time job for her. Then told her that she’d charge him a whole lot less for the work on his garden or he’d knock over the whole contract leaving her without the work.’

Cria pushed back her chair. ‘Is she in today? Brenda I mean?’

He nodded and Cria and Lana left the kitchen. Out in the courtyard Grenla was leaning in the doorway of his workshop, rubbing the palm of his left hand with his right, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, the edge of his motherline tattoo just visible on his forearm. He watched them as they walked under a rose arbour into the garden.

Ahead of them Lana could hear rustling and they came out into a garden full of roses and herbs where the smell of soil and greenery freshened the air. A rounded back bobbed behind some low rose bushes and Lana cleared her throat. The gardener stood up, squinting against the sun under a broad brimmed leather hat. She was a small woman made of taught rope and leather, burned by the sun and cured by her own sweat.

‘Greetings,’ said Cria. ‘You must be Brenda.’

Brenda threw an armful of the yarrow she was harvesting onto the sheet beside her, sniffed and said ‘Yeah?’

‘What can you tell me about Harrion?’

‘He was the tightest arsehole this side of the High City. Not surprised he offed himself, there can’t have been much pleasure in a life doled out in farthings.’ She bent and briskly cut another armful of yarrow.

‘We do not think that he killed himself.’ Cria said. Brenda straightened in surprise. Her frank hazel eyes looked straight into Cria’s.

‘You don’t say. Well, can’t say I’m shocked someone would want to off him either.’ She bent again and Cria turned away, back towards the courtyard.

As they walked under the arbour Cria said, ‘Did you see she had bandaged her hand?’

Lana nodded, she had noticed the scrap of dirty cloth around the woman’s right palm.

‘Whoever did this lowered themselves from the loft after drawing the ladder up and caught themselves on a nail in the roof opening, just a little nick but it might warrant a bandage if you were working with soil.’

‘Should we arrest her?’

‘No I shouldn’t think so?’

‘Why not?’

They emerged into the courtyard to find it was empty. The soft swish of a plane smoothing wood came from the workshop and Cria crossed to the barn and pointed to the ladder.

‘Well, we will just look at that opening again. Go up would you.’

Lana went up into the loft and waited as Cria shuffled the ladder away below her. It was peaceful in the narrow shafts of sunlight dancing with dust motes with the sound of the horses munching and shifting below, despite the neatly wrapped corpse lying on the planks.

Cria’s voice drifted up and disturbed her reverie, ‘Just lower yourself from the loft hatch and jump down.’

Lana did as she was asked and, as she landed, she swore under her breath and then put her palm to her mouth to lick the small nick in her palm from the nail in the edge of the hatch.

‘Shit, I knew it was there too, could have put my hand next to it,’ she said, muffled by her hand in her mouth.

‘Anyway, you have naturally put your left hand on the spot, not your right.’

‘You’d have to be doing it really strangely to put your right hand there. Oh, I see.’

‘And I know who has a sore left hand.’

The sounds from the workshop had stopped and when they stepped inside they found it was empty. A long bench was scattered with tools of various sorts and the air smelt of sawdust and pungent oils and varnishes. A clamp held a chair seat and next to it were piled four turned legs.

‘He does beautiful work,’ Cria said, ‘I recognise the workmanship from the furniture in the kitchen and much of the woodwork in the barn.’

At the other end of the room were a chair and more tools hung on the walls alongside a small unlit fireplace with a kettle. A small loft was accessed by a ladder and while Cria was admiring Grenla’s handiwork Lana went up a few steps and looked into the roof space.

‘He obviously lives here,’ she said, ‘there’s a bed and a few personal bits up here.’

The room darkened as Grenla appeared in the doorway.

‘Can’t a man go to the shithouse without people snooping in his gear?’ He looked quickly from one to the other of them.

Cria turned and Lana hopped down from the steps in an easy jump.

‘Please do sit down,’ Cria said, quiet and stern.

‘What do you want?’ Grenla asked. He obeyed her and perched on the front of the seat and jiggled his leg. Lana stepped forwards until she was a pace behind his chair. She could see the sweat stains and fraying around the neck of his tunic; it had been repaired once before but the fabric was getting thin. He glanced back at her and stopped jiggling his leg.

‘Show me your hand, Grenla,’ Cria said.

Grenla opened his right hand, calloused and hardened from years of work. His sleeves were rolled down now so that Lana couldn’t see the tattoo she had glimpsed earlier.

Cria sighed. ‘Both of them.’

He opened his left hand slowly. It had a small puncture in the palm.

‘I bet you swore when you did that.’ Cria smiled at him and he nodded and gave a nervous laugh. ‘Just like Lana did,’ she continued.

Lana stepped forward and opened her left hand to show the fresh mark in her palm. Grenla started.

‘So, Grenla Jennasline, do you want to tell me why you did it?’ The man paled visibly at her use of his mothername and Lana raised an eyebrow as a piece of the puzzle fell into place for her. Grenla was related along the maternal line to Harrion, and might have some expectation of inheritance.

Grenla leaned forward and buried his head in his hands.

‘He was just so bloody tight when my Mother was struggling so much.’ He looked up at Cria with a pleading look on his face. ‘She’s his sister and she is so close to the edge, she lives like a bloody peasant and yet here he is in this big house, and he won’t even give her a farthing.’ he broke off, his voice choked.

‘And so?’ Cria asked.

‘Don’t you see? He got me here doing all his shitwork and carpentry, gave me a loft to sleep in like a dog and made out it was some kind of charity.’

Cria shook her head, there’s never an excuse for murder, her expression said clearly.

‘Well, what would you have done?’

She turned away and looked down at the nascent chair on the workbench, reached out to run a finger along a grainline cleverly used in the carving of the seat. ‘You have a talent, Grenla. And now it will go to waste but you could have used it. It was honest work at least.’

‘Honest work!’ Grenla spat the words and rose to his feet, his face red. Lana stepped forward and put her hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down into the chair. ‘You don’t get it. I could have been an artisan with a shop in the Heart if he had given me just a little start. He didn’t want that though. He shat on that dream so I could mend his door latches.’

Cria looked at him sadly and stepped to the doorway to call the guards. Luthor appeared in the doorway with a ‘what now?’ expression on his face.

Lana stood with her hand on Grenla’s shoulder. He had buried his head in his hands again and his shoulders shook. Cria stood in front of him with her back to the guard.

‘You must arrest Grenla, Sergeant.’ Cria said.

‘What, why?’ Luthor stepped into the room.

‘Because he murdered Harrion Jennasline.’

Luthor laughed incredulously but the laugh trailed off as he looked at Grenla.

‘I can give you all the specifics later,’ Cria said wearily, ‘but his mothername is Jennasline and he thought he would inherit some money and property, or that his mother would at any rate.’

‘Oh. I see.’ Luthor stepped forward to take Grenla by the arm. As the sergeant grabbed him, Grenla gave a yell and surged to his feet, his face red with rage and horror.

‘No I won’t! You won’t hang me!’ He raged and fought against Luthor who had him by one arm. Lana grabbed onto the other and Cria stepped back against the workbench as the short, muscular woman and the brawny guardsman quickly drove Grenla to his knees. He wept angrily as his hands were tied firmly behind his back and he was pulled up to standing.

Cria turned away as they forced him from the room.

Outside Luthor turned to Lana jabbing a finger into her face ‘I don’t need your help arresting my prisoners, sewer rat.’

Lana resisted the urge to break his finger and said ‘Oh?’

Luthor sneered. ‘And tell your Mistress we’ll bring this up before the magistrate, no need for her to bother.’

Lana smiled, her eyes narrowing. ‘So you get the credit? Hoping for a captaincy? I can only hope that you get the position you deserve.’

Just behind Luthor the young Constable’s mouth twisted and he found an urgent need to scratch his moustache. The Sergeant’s sneer faltered as Lana turned away from him and headed back into the workshop.

Cria was stood, staring down at the chair. She sighed and looked up as Lana came in. They both stood in silence for a moment.

Cria said ‘We ought to get back to my house. We could have lunch on the way, it must be gone noon.’

‘Thank the gods, I was starting to wonder when I would die from hunger.’ Lana said and added, ‘You can talk me through this case.’

‘Oh it was simple,’ Cria gave a little dismissive wave of her fingers as she walked out of the workshop. ‘I do not know how Luthor could miss it. We will take a detour on the way back to book a hearing and I shall present it to the magistrate myself, since the sergeant has been so impolite.’



Copyright © Elizabeth Cutts March 2015



Tom’s flashlight beam flicked and skittered around the roof beams of the church. A grey layer of dust covered every surface and the pews, which would once have faced the altar in orderly rows, were scattered as if a great wind had blown them into crooked piles. I closed the massive wooden door behind me and explored the columns and carvings with my torch beam. The church smelled of dust and old wood with an undertone of decay. A sick feeling settled in the pit of my stomach.

Broken glass glittered among the dust on the floor and the distorted ruin of the stained glass windows let a sharp draught run through the building, shifting the cobwebs. Tom brought out a box of candles and a lighter and started to put the candles on the ends of pews and in stone niches, sticking them down with their own wax. The flames stammered in the draughts and more than one was extinguished the moment he turned away from it.

I walked to the west end of the nave, underneath the tower. There were two doors; one in the south side of the tower and one in the north wall. The font was a crude stone thing in the centre of the space below the tower and I couldn’t tell, in the flickering light of candles and torches, whether it was very roughly made or was once more intricate but had been vandalised. A line of rodent footprints scrabbled through the dust on the wooden lid which I lifted and peered into the empty curved stone basin. I dropped the lid back into place.

‘Hey Serena,’ Tom called from somewhere out of sight.

The church had a north aisle that ran the whole length of the building alongside the nave and a wooden screen divided off the east end into a separate chapel. Tom’s voice came from beyond the screen and I followed it. Two tombs sat square and dark in the centre; they were the sort that have a sculpted figure on the top with arms crossed and eyes open in blank piety. Tom had stuck a candle on each figure’s nose and groin.

‘Look.’ He gestured as if displaying a prize. A moulded brickwork fireplace had been built in the outer wall to warm the toes of priests praying for the immortal souls of the entombed.

‘We shouldn’t light a fire. Where will we get the wood?’

‘We can use the broken up old pews,’ he said and then in answer to my look, ‘Don’t be so scandalised, half of them are firewood already.’

The temptation of warmth and light was strong. I didn’t really want to be in the church and being warm would make it less of an ordeal. ‘I suppose it can’t hurt.’ As I said the words I heard a noise and cocked my head.

Tom was busy peering up the chimney and I strained my ears for a repeat of the sound. I was not sure what I had heard. A scraping, clanking maybe but it was over before I could focus on it properly.

I walked back to the font and examined the two doors I had glanced at earlier. Both were low and narrow, pointed at the top, and made of thick wood with large and ungainly keyholes. I tried the South door as it seemed to go up into the tower but it was locked. Behind me I heard the noise, closer this time, a scraping metallic sound. I spun round and the door handle of the other door settled back into place. My breath solidified in my chest and my eyes fixed on the door ahead of me. I forced my breath out and took another as I stepped sideways, keeping my eyes on the door.

‘Tom!’ I called. There was no answer. ‘Tom!’ As I yelled there was a crash and I looked down the church, eyes strained.

Tom stood among the debris of a broken pew. He held up a piece he had just broken off and grinned. The smile faded as he saw my face and then widened again. ‘Did I make you jump?’

‘I just saw that door handle move!’ I pointed at the door ahead of me.

He dropped the wood and sauntered up the aisle, frowning. ‘What?’

‘That door handle moved.’

He walked up to the door and rattled the handle, turned it and let it fall. It made the familiar scraping and clanking sound. ‘Locked.’ He put his ear to the door. ‘I wonder where it goes.’

I shrugged. ‘It’s like a section was added on to the end of the north aisle, or walled off from it.’

‘I bet it was just movement in the building or something. You know what old buildings are like.’

I frowned. ‘I definitely saw that handle move. Like properly turn. It didn’t just wobble.’


‘God, you’re so patronising!’ I said.

‘Well there can’t be anyone else here can there? I’m going to get the fire going.’ He stamped off down the aisle and started to bash pieces of wood around.

I was just about to follow him and gather up some of the already broken pieces when there was another noise. It was a gentle scratching. Scritch scritch scritch. Then it disappeared behind a mass of Tom’s banging but when he stopped it was still there. Scritch scritch scritch. It was coming from the font and it sounded like a small animal.

Scritch scritch scritch.

It was probably just a trapped mouse and I ought to lift the lid and check. I glanced down the aisle towards Tom. He was gathering an armful of wood and scowling and so I stepped towards the font.

Scritch scritch scritch.

I dropped the lid and it crashed to the floor as I was transfixed by the sight in the font. I tried to yell but all that escaped from my mouth was a dry croak. Crammed into the font were the corpses of rats in various states of decay. Maggots writhed among blood encrusted bones, making the remains of dusty fur and leathery skin shift and heave. The smell of decay took hold of my throat and I retched.

Tom noticed me gag and came up the aisle to join me. He looked in the font and grimaced. ‘That’s gross.’ He picked up the lid and dropped it into place to hide the decaying mess.

‘It wasn’t there a few minutes ago,’ I said.

He looked at me with disbelief in his face.

‘I took off the lid a while ago and the font was empty. Absolutely empty.’ My voice rose as I saw doubt on his face.

‘Don’t yell.’

‘Well, you don’t believe me. What? Am I lying? Do you think I’m lying?’

‘No of course–,’

A loud bang from the ceiling above us made us duck. We looked up as dust sprinkled around us.

‘What the hell?’ Tom looked at me, his eyes wide.

I brushed the dust from my shoulders and clenched my guts. I swallowed again. ‘I don’t know. Let’s just go home.’

‘No. Someone’s messing with us, I want to see who it is.’

‘Does it matter? I just want to go.’

‘They can’t leave without passing us,’ he ignored my protest, stepped over to the door and tried the handle.

‘That door is solid,’ I said. He rattled it and then started looking round the walls and in the window recesses and niches. ‘What are you looking for?’ I asked.

‘Sometimes they keep the tower key somewhere nearby. Somewhere out of the way on a hook or a ledge.’ He reached above the door surround, said ‘See?’ and brought down an old iron key.

He put the key in the lock, turned it with a grinding noise and pulled the door open. He raised an eyebrow at me. I didn’t want to go up, but I didn’t want to stay alone down in the church either so I gave a tight nod. He turned and, shining his torch ahead of him, started up the spiral of steps. I followed behind him. As I stepped through the doorway my back prickled and I felt that someone was behind me, someone whose eyes were boring into my back. I turned and shone my torch around. Nothing. I continued up the steps and after a moment I heard the crunch of a footstep behind me. Again I turned and my torch illuminated the crumbling plaster of the staircase walls but nothing else. Tom was out of sight just above me and I hurried up the stairs, still hearing steps behind me.

I emerged into the tower room, turned and shone my torch at the empty doorway. ‘I swear I heard steps behind me.’ I said.

He snorted. ‘Echo.’

I was sure he was wrong. The crunch of the step on the plaster strewn treads of the stairs hadn’t sounded like an echo to me.

‘They must be up on the next level,’ he said.

I shone my torch upwards to crisscrossing rafters and the cavernous mouths of two bells. Bell ropes hung down through the room we were in and disappeared down to the ground floor through holes. A doorway opened onto the tower staircase above us to allow access along the rafters to the bells. I caught the flicker of a pale face in the dark and then it was gone.

‘Hey, I think I saw someone,’ I said.

‘Let’s see.’ He headed to the stair case and hopped up them two at a time. ‘Oh,’ his voice drifted down to me and a moment later he joined me, ‘It’s bricked up.’ He frowned. My skin chilled and tightened under my clothes.

‘Fuck it, let’s go light the fire and open the booze,’ he said.

The candles in the chapel had blown out in the breezes that criss-crossed the church like spider webs. I moved the candles to more sheltered corners, relit them, then wrapped myself in a sleeping bag and watched while Tom lit a fire in the old fireplace. I opened the bottle of cheap wine and he brought out a pack of supermarket sausage rolls and a huge bag of Doritos. We wrapped ourselves up in the sleeping bags and ate and drank in silence. The food and drink sat heavily in my stomach and we curled up in the sleeping bags with all our clothes on. Tom’s back was to the fire and I spooned up against him, my face out towards the church and my phone in my palm. I couldn’t imagine that I would sleep, but I did.

I woke suddenly. My right arm was fuzzy with pain from being under me on such a hard surface and I sat up to stretch it. Tom grumbled something in his sleep. The church was dark. All but one of the candles in the chapel had gone out and the fire had collapsed into pale ashes with a red glow. I could hear that it had begun to rain. I reached behind Tom for the wood and put a couple of pieces on the remains of the fire and watched as they started to burn, before lying back down and snuggling back into Tom’s chest. Then I wondered; what woke me? Was it the pain in my arm or a noise? I strained my ears. A memory of the scraping clank of the door handle came back to me. Was I just remembering the sound from earlier in the evening?

Tom mumbled something and pulled me further into his arms. I closed my eyes and tried not to listen. I was warm and comfortable snuggled in the sleeping bags and blankets with Tom and the fire behind me. I was just drifting back to sleep when I heard the noise again and my face was chilled by a cold breeze. I raised myself on one arm and listened.

‘Tom.’ I reached behind me and shook him.

He woke bleary and irritated. ‘What?’

‘I heard something.’

‘It’ll be your imagination. Again.’

There was a crash from the tower. Tom scrambled out of his sleeping bag and jumped up. ‘Oh whoever is doing this is going to get a kicking.’ He grabbed his torch and ran out of the chapel.

I muttered, ‘Right. So I’m imagining things and, at the same time, someone’s messing with us.’ For a moment irritation swept away the fear but it seeped back as I stood in the chapel chilled without the blanket and Tom’s warmth. The light from the fire flickered across the impassive faces of the knight and his wife lying on their tombs. I took my torch and went into the main aisle of the church. Tom was standing by the font. His torch beam flicked around me and then up into the rafters before settling on the wooden beams above him. The silence tightened.

The crash from the floor above was so loud that it seemed that the beams had all jumped together. Tom ducked, dust rained down around him and he coughed, waving his hand in front of his face as he stood up again. He flung open the tower door yelling, ‘I’m coming up you arseholes.’

I heard him run up the stairs and onto the floor above and then there was silence. The atmosphere solidified and every one of my nerves was at full stretch. A cold breeze whipped through me and still the silence hung.

I took a step towards the tower door. ‘Tom,’ I called. The silence started to ring in my ears and then it tore as a crash reverberated around the church. ‘Tom!’ I yelled and ran towards the door but I was stopped by a series of crashes from above me and then Tom’s voice shouted wordlessly in pain. My eyes were fixed in horror on the ceiling above me as another great crash sounded and then the silence descended again.

I ran to the tower and up the stairs. The tower room was empty although the debris and dust had been scuffed about and the roof door hung open, banging in the wind. As I emerged onto the roof I was slapped in the face by a gust of wind and rain.

‘Tom!’ I called out but the only sounds were the rain pelting down and my own ragged breaths. The sky was thick with clouds which gleamed like tarnished pewter as moonlight filtered through.

There was a lead gulley around the central roof of the church and I moved around it, leaning into the tiles. The crenelated brickwork that prevented anyone falling down into the graveyard was just knee high and I half crawled along the precarious path calling Tom’s name. As I came alongside the lead roof of the north aisle I could see a dark patch out on the pale grey surface. I scrambled onto the flat roof and went over to it. It was his knitted hat, soaked. I picked it up and it left a dark stain behind it on the lead.

‘Tom!’ I shouted against the wind and rain. Although I shouted at the top of my voice the sound was muffled and flung away by the wind. I pushed the soaked hat into my pocket and walked to the edge of the roof to peer down into the graveyard. My torch showed me the teeming rain and the black shapes of the graves as I swept the beam among the bushes and tombs. The smell of damp earth and grass came up from the churchyard.

A movement caught my eye and I swung my torch round. My foot slipped on the wet lead and I fell to my knee, grabbing the brickwork in front of me. I tipped forwards, landing hard with my gut on the brickwork, my breath knocked out of me and I just managed to save myself from overbalancing by dropping my torch and holding on with both hands. The torch bounced down the outside wall of the church and disappeared into the undergrowth and I collapsed in a heap behind the low brickwork. Sobs caught themselves in my breathing and I struggled to calm myself.

After a few minutes I reached to my back pocket for my phone but it wasn’t there; I must have left it by the fire. I stared into the darkness for a moment and tried to smother my swelling panic. A drip ran down the back of my neck from my plastered hair taking a shiver with it. My jeans were soaked and I was starting to feel numb and stiff and I realised I needed to get to my phone and the fire.

I felt my way back to the main roof and clambered over the parapet, bashing my sore ribs in the process. The handle to the tower door turned easily and the door swung inwards; the blackness inside the room was solid and malevolent. The charcoal smudge of light from the cloud huddled moon reached no more than a foot into the room. I stepped into the room with my left hand out against the wall and shuffled my way around the floor, feeling forwards with my foot at each step, leaning into the solidity of the wall. The darkness pressed painfully against my eyes which strained to see although there was nothing visible.

Halfway across the room I reached my foot forward and it nudged something soft but firm. I clung to the wall and gathered myself to bend down and touch whatever lay in front of me. I nudged it again with my foot and it gave a little but didn’t move. I bent, reached out and touched it with my hands; fabric, jeans, a leg inside the jeans.

‘Tom!’ I said out loud, shaking the leg. ‘Tom are you ok? We’ve got to get out of here.’ I moved up his body. ‘We should never have come.’ Something hard slid under my knee and I picked it up, square, plastic, Tom’s phone.

The leg moved a little and I sighed in relief but the air froze on my lips as a voice came out of the darkness. My voice. It said ‘Tom! Are you ok? We’ve got to get out of here.’ And then closer to me, ‘We should never have come.’ The voice had a flat tone which was nothing like the scared, shaking voice in which I had spoken. I scrabbled backwards away from the sound and touched the phone’s power button.

The dim blue light showed the room was empty. There was no body in the middle of the floor. My head span with confusion. None of the debris in the room could have felt like a leg in jeans, even confused and desperate in the dark. I flicked the light around into the corners, into the stairwell, up into the belfry above. There was nothing but dust, cobwebs and a sense of waiting.

I opened the door onto the stairs and found that they were not in darkness. Someone had stuck a single candle in the narrow, dust filled window ledge. The tiny rectangular window was made of a few small panes of leaded glass opaque with grime and there was one of these windows at each revolution of the stair. In brighter times they’d give a scrap of daylight and as I went down I found that each of the niches had a candle.

As I emerged from the tower firelight spilled from the chapel out into the church. The orange, flickering light winked and shimmered from the broken shards of glass still in the windows. I walked to the chapel entrance. The fire cracked and spat in the grate and as I came round the tomb of the old knight I saw a figure curled under our blanket, facing the fire.

‘Tom!’ I rushed to him and he lay still, curled tightly around himself. I shook him and he straightened arms and legs and then grabbed hold of me, screaming. I screamed and screamed and through my cries I realised that he was crying with laughter, not with pain. He was shaking and convulsing but with cries of laughter.

‘Oh we got you so good. You should have seen your face!’ Tears of laughter ran down his cheeks, shining in the firelight. I slapped him hard across the face.

‘Ow!’ he raised his hand to his face but couldn’t stop laughing.

‘You utter shit,’ I said and start to gather my stuff together, rage and embarrassment burning me up.

‘Oh come on,’ he said. ‘It was just a bit of fun.’

‘I thought you were dead!’ This elicited another guffaw from him and so I added ‘I wish you fucking well were.’ With that I closed my bag and slung it onto my shoulder.

He tried to stop himself laughing. ‘Ok look, I’m sorry.’ He coughed to hide another laugh that bubbled up, ruining his attempt at a sincere look. ‘But you’ve got to admit that the rats; that was classic horror.’

My anger turned icy cold. ‘So the rats were you, the turning handle, the banging?’

‘Well, not all me, Sian and Michael are here.’

‘Really.’ I narrowed my eyes. ‘And that bit with the body upstairs and my voice.’


‘When I was in the tower room; the body that disappeared, my voice repeating my words back to me?’

‘Sounds awesome but I didn’t plan it, they must have been improvising or some shit. Cool. Let’s go see them.’

‘Yes. Let’s.’

He seemed to have taken my sudden coolness as an improvement on incandescent rage and he led the way over to the locked door next to the tower.

‘Ta da!’ he said and swung the door inwards. Leaning against the back wall were two figures, their legs straight along the tiled floor in front of them, their heads tilted to one side. For a moment I didn’t recognise Sian and Michael. Their faces were white in Tom’s torchlight and the light from my phone, their eyes were wide and dark and their mouths hanging open. The smell of carrion was in the air and my stomach twisted.

Tom looked into the room and gave a short shout of laughter. ‘Cool set up guys.’ He stepped down a couple of steps. A cold tendril of fear had loosened from my anger and was working its way up my neck. I stood fixed to the top step.

To the left of the narrow room was a bricked up doorway that must once have opened out onto the churchyard, opposite it were three steps down to a door which was wide open. This doorway had a wide, rounded top, older than any other doorway I’d seen in the church. Steps continued down beyond the door and a dusty, earthy smell seeped up into the room.

Tom ignored the open door and walked past it, stepped up to Sian and shook her shoulder. ‘Sian!’ he said. She slid sideways onto the floor leaving a dark stain on the whitewashed wall behind her.

‘Fuck!’ Tom stepped back. He looked back at me, confusion and fear on his face and then turned back to her. ‘Quit messing, babe.’ He shook her again and then he shook Michael, calling for them both to wake up, stop messing him around, the joke’s over now.

He started to cry in small, whining sobs as he tried to feel for Sian’s pulse. I watched him, remembering my own fear a short while ago. I should have felt sympathy but the icy rage was still tight under my skin. The key to the room laid on the top step and I bent and picked it up. The cold iron chilled my skin.

The doorway to the right was dark and I could no longer see anything beyond the doorway; no brickwork or downwards stairs just a thick blackness. The darkness began to seep over the door step behind Tom, it gathered and swirled in tendrils and brought a deep sense of hatred and fear. I watched, held my breath, waited. Tom turned and saw the darkness gathered between us and then beyond it he saw me in the doorway holding the key in my hand. His eyes widened.

I slammed the door shut, turned the key in the lock, and ran.


Copyright © Elizabeth Cutts October 2014



I will never

be cool

I will never

be funny clever forward enough

I will never have the right thing to say

on the tip

of my tongue

I will never be bright enough

I will never be the social shooting star

the one

the core

I would not want to be

in the middle

I would shrink shirk hide

I will never be cool

have it

be happening

or whatever the fuck the word for it is now

I will always be peering through the glass

glad to be on the dark side of the glass

but wistful

about the ease style smooth

of the people in the light


© Elizabeth Cutts 2014



This poem wrote itself in a few minutes flat, I think I’ll need some distance before I can evaluate it honestly. The total lack of punctuation makes me a bit nervous (see – not cool).

The Hardest Word



To say it to you

To deny your request

Is like cutting my own flesh.


My gut swoops and hangs

My sweat stinks my fear

My head swings in an arc

And my voice will not sound.


To be silent now

To deny my own wish

Is like fastening my own chains.


My throat closes fast

My ears hum and buzz

My breath hangs in my mouth

And my voice will not sound.



Copyright © 2014 Elizabeth Cutts