“The Fitting” is a darkly comic short story about vanity, reinvention, and the voice inside your head that just won’t shut up. Steve’s new hairpiece promises him youth and sex appeal — but Ego has other plans. 'Have you come for a fitting today, Mr. Jones?' The girl was pretty. All hairdressers are beautiful, thought Steve. But then, everyone under 30 was beautiful, once you reach fifty. The effortless beauty of youth walked the streets unabated for the pleasure of the old. 'Yes, that's right, but please call me Steve.' Did I blush, he wondered? I bet I did. 'You did, you are a dick, she wouldn't touch you with a bargepole, or a dead salmon.' The pretty girl told Steve to wait and that his personal hair consultant would be out presently.  'Hello, Steve! So good to see you, let's pop into the fitting studio.' Arabella was glorious. She was all woman, every inch of her beckoned attention. Peachy breasts peeped from a beautician's uniform a...

✍️  “The Riverbank” is a gothic family story of resentment, revelation, and reconciliation. A narrator discovers the hidden tragedy of Great Aunt Katherine’s youth — and with it, a new tenderness that bridges the gap between past and present. Great Aunt Katherine had been seemingly on her last legs for about thirty years. Since I could remember she had been shrinking and creaking and swaying in the wind. Finally, she was gone and was currently residing in a casket for public viewing before burial later in the day. We had never gotten along. She was caustic and bitter and complained about everything. She irked me to the core. None of us liked her and we seldom got in touch. Mum had fallen out with her years back and the connections rusted and corroded like old batteries. Damage had been done with emotional weaponry and unrepentant intent. But in death people rally together to do their duty and triumphantly, one hopes, they ignore the fallout from the battleground. The undertaker...

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Private Investigator Ginny Greaves , a lipstick lesbian who never mixes business and pleasure The Brotherly Love Band It was ten past gin o’clock on a Thursday and I was two bills behind rent when trouble swanned into my office in designer heels and a moral compass that pointed directly to the gutter. She had diamonds on her ears, guilt in her eyes, and the kind of pout that suggested she kissed too much or too often, or probably both. “You’re Ginny Greaves,” she said, like she wasn’t impressed but was willing to pretend if I solved the case. “That’s what the door says, unless someone’s replaced the lettering with ‘Ask Me About My Childhood Trauma.’” I leaned back in my chair and gestured to the seat opposite. “What’s missing, sweetheart? Husband? Poodle? Self-respect?” I watched her hips as they tried to hypnotise me, but I wasn'e falling for this broad. Those hips were a warning. She sat. Crossed her legs like a lethal weapon. Lowered her voice to a scandalous whisper. “My ring. ...