Search Results for: Christina Taylor 

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He remembers so many wars he can count them on both hands and feet. His face is a map of worries, drawn deeper by nicotine. His skin’s as pale as tracing paper, blending into the walls. Grandad says he feels old as time.   
 
The afternoon after his 90th birthday he gets a shovel from the shed. He walks bent double to the rosebushes, a clockwork toy slowing down. With an aerosol can he sprays white lines on the lawn.  
 
The wind whips his silver hair across his face like a shroud but he doesn’t stop. He works like a 20 year old, the spade gliding through the frosty earth like water. Inch by inch he removes the soil, the darkness leaving a perfect void.  
 
Soon there is no more time.  
 
Now when I hang out the washing the smell of tobacco lingers among the roses.

✉

Credits

fiction by
Christina Taylor
@Chrissie72

image by
Firdows Kahn

©
creators 

White Noise


I met you on the longest day, believing the time we had together was interminably elastic.

Now the edges of hours shorten and shrink, curling inward like discarded sweet wrappers. As the minutes fast forward into night I forget you. I recall the planets; Jupiter, Saturn, Mars. The names of constellations you taught me drip off my tongue; Andromeda, Orion, Cassiopeia. I know there are 27 bones in the hand that brushed the hair from my face. I can recite the alphabet backwards, searching for clues. But I can’t remember your name.

Seconds boil down to nothing as the kettle whistles. I stir milk into my tea and memories splash around my head. Who spoke first? Who initiated the first kiss? Grasping for answers, there is only a blank space where your smile should be, white noise when I try to remember your last three words.
by
Christina Taylor
@Chrissie72
Can You Illustrate This Piece?

1. Read the details here
2. Send your art to whitenoise@adhocfiction.com

Confession

Today the queue snakes around the font and down the aisle. In desperate times we are all believers. To pass the time I list my sins; my brain cannot contain them all. As I kneel, my heart races a marathon.
 
The door opens, his silhouette bows. I watch his lips move in silent prayer. Dust motes dance, confetti in his red hair. The scent of him hangs about us; sweat, cigarettes and spice. 
	‘Father, forgive me…’ he begins. For a moment darkness traps me; I can’t move or speak. 
	Panicked footsteps jolt me from my study. Father Duncan, late again.
	‘Jamie, I love you.’ 

I flee before he knows my name.
by
Christina Taylor
@Chrissie72
Can You Illustrate This Piece?

1. Read the details here
2. Send your art to confession@adhocfiction.com