X Marks The Spot opening scene

Diana exhaled a shaky breath, before ringing the doorbell. Despite herself, she smoothed down her dress, fiddled with the zipper on her leather jacket, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and then untucked it again to curl loose and coppery over her forehead. Fussing over her appearance. The self-loathing swelled beneath her tongue, even if she knew looking pretty would help.

In the last twenty four hours she had stripped the black dye from her hair, removed three ear piercings and found a more adult version of the white dress Lucille always used to like her wearing. Soft. Soft and pretty and innocent.

Her hands dropped as if scalded when the door opened.

It wasn’t Lucille.

The man in front of her was handsome, buttoned up in a three piece suit, and entirely too sharp to be Lucille’s normal brand of toy. She recognized him from the Instagram photos as Tristan de Silva – the newly beloved husband. Dark curls, rich, playboy. Absolutely not Lucille’s type at all. He raised a brow without his hands faltering over the tie he was knotting.
“Is Lucille around?” she asked.

His steel-blue eyes gleamed at the question, his head tilting as he looked her up and down. Making no attempt to hide it whatsoever. “You’re Diana Michaels.”

Diana squared her shoulders, jutting her chin up. “You’ve heard of me?”

“Lucille’s Diana – my wife talks about you all the time.”

Another stab of rage, of panic, shot through her at that. Her knees turned weak and her heart pounded in her chest, but she simply flashed him a smile. “And you’re Tristan De Silva. Congratulations to both of you, I’m sure you’ll be very happy together. Is she in?”

He stepped aside to let her past him, making a vague hand gesture of welcome. “She’s in the bedroom getting ready, if you want to wait.” He shut the door behind them and held out a hand to accept her jacket next, flashing a positively charming smile right back. His eyes didn’t warm up even a fraction.
“Is she going to be long? It’s kind of urgent.” She didn’t want to shrug her jacket off – it felt rather like facing Lucille without battle armour, and she felt outnumbered and exposed enough already.

“She’ll be down in a minute.” He continued to study her with a hungry sort of curiosity, a clinical amusement perhaps even, arm still out for her jacket.

She dumped it into his hand, unable to feel sorry that she was probably intruding on their night. He looked ready to be out the door at any moment, a tornado of tailoring and Hugo Boss. Why had Lucille married him? They’d looked genuinely smitten in the photographs, but that could have been the Lucille Wolverton ™ filter on top of whatever else she decided to edit with. Surely they weren’t actually in love?

He’d called her Lucille’s Diana.

“You said she talks about me a lot,” Diana tried to fish, nauseously. “…what does she say exactly?”

“The type of thing that makes me wonder what you’re doing on our doorstep, out of the blue, when the two of you haven’t spoken for…five years, is it? Champagne?”

Champagne. This was definitely Lucille’s house. Everything about Lucille Wolverton, appearance-wise, was like champagne and it was the only alcohol she drank. Pale gold hair, hazel eyes that seemed gold in the right light, golden skin. Light and floaty to an acquaintance, intoxicating and potentially lethal if you had a bit too much of her.

Diana studied him back, carefully, trying to figure out how much he knew about his wife. About everything. Lucille’s type was soft – attractive, yes – but soft. Enamoured. Or so she’d thought, or so it had been five years ago.

“Well,” he said when she didn’t speak. “I’m having champagne. Come on.”
Somehow, as he swept prowling away into their kitchen, she followed. “Sit.” A bottle of champagne was fished out of the fridge, popped, and frothed into three flutes. He held hers out to her.

“I don’t drink,” she said. She accepted the glass automatically into her hands.
She could hear moving upstairs, the strains of quiet singing, music. She looked around the kitchen as she took a sip, scanning her gaze over glossy cookery books and paintings. It was pristine. Of course it was. A catalogue of a house, white as anything.

“Why do you want to see Lucille?” he asked.

“It’s a personal matter.” She willed herself to exhale another breath, to calm down. She wished she could have a glass of water to soothe the dryness of her mouth.

Quick as flash, he caught hold of the lock of hair curling around her face and gave it a gentle tug. She recoiled, and he smiled, before simply tucking it behind her ear in a caress of warm fingers. “The colour suits you,” he said.

She swallowed hard, stomach flipping out. What the hell was that supposed to mean? She set her champagne glass down on the table to free her hands, back pressed against the kitchen counter.

The next second, footsteps sounded on the stairs. The next second, Lucille fluttered into the kitchen in a white dress, bare-foot and fey, with shorter hair than Diana remembered. “Do you know-”

She stopped dead. Her gaze flicked between them, without a smile.

“Diana’s here,” Tristan said. “Drink?” He held out the champagne flute. Lucille took it, knocked it back, and advanced forward with her stare fixed intent on Diana’s face.

Tristan stepped out of the way.
“What’s happened?” Lucille demanded. “Are you alright?”
Concerned, despite everything.

Diana swallowed. She glanced at Tristan, watching them both with the same continuous and open curiosity, and Lucille seized hold of her jaw.


“Lucille!” she hissed. The panic swelled – Tristan was standing right there! How could she possibly talk about it? Ask? Do anything?

Lucille stared at her, and raised a delicate brow.

“I’ll do anything, please,” Diana said.

Those had always been the magic words.



10 Favourite Writing Prompts

As some of you may know, I run a prompt blog in which I post various writing snippets designed to kickstart people’s creativity. Somewhat belatedly, here are ten of my favourites so far.

“It’s adorable how much you want people to think you’re dangerous,” they said. They took a step forward, slow and sauntering, eyes shining in the burnt orange streetlight. “Would you like me to teach you?”


It is a terrible thing to want happiness but not know what to do with peace, because we were raised on war and I learnt to love you fighting. But you love gently, arms laid down, and that is not the version of you I fell in love with.


“Did you just kidnap the crown prince?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was an accident?” he replied weakly.

“How do you accidentally kidnap the most heavily guarded person on the planet?! We need to put him back.”

“Put him back where? We can’t just leave him on the side of the road!”


She lived life like a pulled back fist, but never quite had the courage to punch.


“You looked at me like I was so strong,” she crooned. She clambered to her feet, blood dripping down her skin as she swayed on the spot. “Like I could do anything.”

“Please – don’t – you can’t -”

“How could I ever give that up?”


You are my salvation and my devastation, but I suppose angels were always the ones who first taught humans how to fall.

“You save everyone, that’s your thing, I get it. But who saves you?”

“You do.”

“I’m being serious. You’ve seen me in a fight, I’m rubbish.”

“Maybe, but I don’t need another fighter. Maybe sometimes I just need a little peace.”


I watered myself down because you told me that’s what flowers needed to bloom. Now, I’m drowning and you tell me it’s because I was never strong enough.


“I love you.”
“You love a story someone once told you, and gave it my face.”


“It’s alright,” the villain murmured, cradling him close. “I have you now. You’re safe.”

– i bring my monsters to bed –

I bring my monsters to bed and kiss the most wounded parts of them. And maybe that doesn’t make it better (because nothing can make it better) but a moment of feeling like it might is all I need. A moment, and then another moment, and a thousand moments for a lifetime.

I bring my monsters to bed and seduce them. Maybe if I do it well enough I can trick myself into loving me too.

I bring my monsters to bed and give them warm blankets and foreheads kisses, sweet things and soft words to be devoured, in the hope of lulling them into rest.

I bring my monsters to bed and let them tell me pretty things, and maybe they’re not true (I know that they’re not true) but if you paint something pretty enough you can convince yourself and sometimes that’s the same thing.

I bring my monsters to bed and kiss the most wounded parts of them. We are all hurting, catching on the edges of our teeth, and if I kiss them hard enough then maybe I’ll be a monster too. We will fear nothing.

I bring my monsters to bed because there is no point pretending they’re not there.

Peter Pan’s Shadow

Repost of an older short story.


The screams sounded like they were being flayed off of her little brother’s lungs.

Nausea clawed its way up Lucille’s throat, her heart quickening.

It was the type of scream that provoked worried neighbours to call the police. The type of scream that had wrenched her from her sleep every night for the last two months, as if things weren’t bad enough already.  The type of scream that meant they would take her brother away — take them both away — if they found out that their mum hadn’t been home in a month.

Lucille lurched to her feet, tripping over her chemistry textbooks, swearing as pain throbbed through her toe. She sprinted down the hallway and slammed open Alexander’s bedroom door.

The stench of urine assaulted her.

The battery on the nightlight must have broken again. It always broke, no matter how often she changed it.

She surged forwards after a split second of hesitation.

Alex trembled in his favourite fire-engine pyjamas in the gloom. Twisted, howling in the soiled sheets, eyes bulging white pinpricks of terror. Each breath ripped ragged on a cry.

Too loud. It probably echoed all the way to Mrs Cordon’s house two doors down.

“Hey – hey – shh – shhh.” She dragged him away from the sodden bed, carding her fingers through his sweat-drenched hair. “Stop crying. You’re okay, we’re okay. It’s just a bad dream.”

“It’s not!” He hiccupped around his sobs. “It’s not. I saw it this time!”

His gaze darted around the room, feverish with fear, lingering on every shadowy corner and the wardrobe door.

Lucille clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle his cries, feeling like her intestines had begun to rot.

He screamed even harder against her palm, writhing and kicking in her hold. Face bloodless in the moonlight.

“Sorry.” Tears stung her eyes as she tightened her grip, burying her face into the cornstarch-colour of his hair so she didn’t have to look at him thrashing. His nails clawed at her arms, joining countless scratches and bruises from last night and the night before that. She wore long-sleeves all the time at school now. Nobody asked.

“Shh. I’ve got you. It’s okay,” she said. “Shh. Just be quiet.”

It did nothing to calm him. Of course, it didn’t. Nothing she did seemed to work, and she’d tried everything! She put on the nightlight that their mum had got him. She made him ‘Monster Spray’ out of water, salt and lemon juice, and disinfected his bedroom every evening just like mum used to. She checked under the bed for him. She checked the closet.

He didn’t want her.

“It’s me – it’s Lucille. I’m not going to hurt you. Just breathe…just…stop crying. Please.
It felt like forever had passed before he slackened in her grip, exhausted. Alex’s cheeks were wet with tears as she peeled her hand away.

“It has teeth!”

“It’s just a dream!” she said.

“Why won’t you believe me? Don’t you feel it?”

The back of her neck prickled, and she shoved the chill away furiously.  For a second, she imagined breath looming behind her, cold raising goose-bumps on her skin.  “Shut up Alex.”

“I want mum,” he said.

“Shut up.” Lucille’s chest ached.

Alex crumpled to the floor and Lucille wished that she had the same luxury. She swallowed, concentrating on breathing in and out deeply for him to copy.

A light flickered at Mr Boyd’s house across the street, but he could have just been going to the bathroom again.

Her fists clenched.

“Is she coming back?” Alex asked.

The switch from ‘when’ to ‘is’ felt like a punch in the throat. Lucille wanted to slap him for it, hard. Give him something worse than a six year old’s bad dreams to scream about.

“Of course she is, she wouldn’t just leave us.” She gritted her teeth. “I said shut up. Haven’t you done enough?” Maybe if he’d cried less, screamed less in the night, their mother wouldn’t have left.

His lip wobbled and Lucille’s eyes widened.
“No — no don’t. Alex, please,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Alex sniffled, wiping another tear from his face. He nearly choked as he swallowed back another sob for her.

The guilt squirmed in the pit of her belly. Maybe it had been her, maybe if she’d been a better daughter, argued back less, helped more around the house…

Lucille shoved herself onto her feet, hauling Alex up by the back of his shirt. Her nose wrinkled.  His urine had smeared all over her pyjamas. The tears burned behind her eyes again. She sucked in another deep breath, and exhaled.

“Let’s get you clean,” she muttered.


A Game of Love

“Redfearn, Lothwell, De Ventress, Smith. You have quite the resume Mrs Margaux,” Johanna said. “Does my brother know that you’re married already?” She stretched back against the plush leather sofa, watching the older woman come to a stop at the comment.

Margaux Doe was quite the mystery, not in the least because she actually thought herself clever for coming with a surname like that. Still, people seemed to buy it. It always amazed her what people were willing to buy when a woman was pretty and oh, Margaux was beautiful. She could see why Nicholas was so smitten. She waited for the flicker of panic in dark eyes, but it never came. Instead –

“Jacobs, Carver, Middleton, Bower,” Margaux replied.

Johanna’s insides clenched.
“Oh honey.” A smile crossed Margaux’s lips at odds with her disappointed tone of voice. “Blackmail, heartbreak, coercion. You have quite the rap sheet of sins for such a nice young woman.”

“I haven’t killed anyone.”

“Which means they’re still alive to spill your dirty little secrets.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I was curious to meet you,” Margaux said. She wandered over to Johanna’s drinks cabinet, plucking out a bottle from the ice and twisting the cork expertly in her hand. “I heard a pretty, rich thing had been asking a lot of questions about me. We seem to keep stumbling over each other’s conquests.” The cork popped, and Johanna’s trademark champagne frothed into two flutes.

She had to be exactly Margaux’s type, superficially. A champagne flute of a woman; lit gold from her wealth to the blonde shine of her hair, and equally full of air. A ditzy, pretty, rich thing with no children to inherit either. Warning: liable to cause intoxication.

Johanna’s head tilted, eyes hardening, and she wet her lips.

Normally, she liked her own toys to be softer, more impressionable – sweethearts who she could sweep off their feet until they the hit the ground hard. Margaux had nothing of that. She had four dead lovers who left her everything and nothing that Johanna could actually prove. Only rumours.

She had the fucking audacity to treat Johanna’s home like her own.

“Is that why you’re with him?” she asked.

“He’s a darling,” Margaux said. “He thinks he knows how to play the game of love.”
She set the champagne back in the ice bucket and sauntered over, hips swaying with a casual seduction that Johanna couldn’t help but admire. She recognized that walk. It was her own walk, right down to the cock of her head.

“I take it you disagree.” Johanna tilted her head back against the sofa to expose the line of her throat, getting a vicious of stab of satisfaction at least as Margaux’s gaze immediately followed its path.

“The boy is enamoured. You know that, or you wouldn’t have invited me here to have this conversation. Were you hoping to threaten me?” She pressed the champagne flute cold into Johanna’s hand, their fingers brushing warm.

“If anything happens to him, I’ll prove you were behind it.”

“If you’re that worried, maybe you should marry me instead.”

The world stopped. For a second time, in too short a succession in one person’s company, she was caught off guard. Johanna raised a brow a second too late.

“Careful, I’m a lot better at the game than Nicholas is.”

“We could make a bet on it,” Margaux said. She adjusted her glass to her other hand, and tucked Johanna’s hair behind her ear, leaning in. “One year. If you can make me fall in love with you, you win. If you can’t…you give me all of the lovely Needham fortune.”

Johanna’s spine stiffened at the challenge, eyes sparking.
“And what do I get when I win?”

“Whatever your adorably twisted little heart desires.”

Margaux wasn’t her normal kind of toy. Johanna liked them soft and impressionable, starry-eyed, so that when they met their forever-love they could agonize over the bruised foundations that she gave them. She collected first loves the way Marlene Halligan collected Pokemon Cards – gotta catch ‘em all!

Margaux Doe was a Black Widow of the most poisonous kind. There was nothing soft about her except her lips. Johanna couldn’t leave her weak at the knees with a well-placed smile, or chasing with a coy look, when they both knew all of the moves on the board backward.

But love was a game that Johanna won every single time, and one gold digging murderer wasn’t going to change that. Her fingers tightened on the champagne glass and she took a sip.


Challenge accepted.

A new drabble/story idea of mine. The one who loves playing games with people, meets the Black Widow. I think I like my femme fatales a bit too much.

X Marks The Spot

Snippet of a new thriller that I’ve started working on 🙂

They want me to make an etching of myself out of the scars you gave me, and I can’t tell if it’s because they want me to heal the wounds into art or because of the age old lie that suffering is beautiful.

Today is our anniversary.

Panni will probably come over to drag me out of the house because fresh air cures all ills and it’s been weeks. If I had my way, it would be months, years, a lifetime until anyone got me to step outside again. I could bear it in a lifetime, maybe, when I’ve been reborn and people no longer stare. But she’ll do it today. I should not be alone today – you know that.

You would hate Panni. She’s like a middle-aged suburban soccer mum transplanted into the body of a twenty-five year old punk rocker. She’s also not the one who thinks making myself an exhibition piece will magically turn you into a story to be shelved. You would love the idea of me being your masterpiece. My therapist says doing it myself might give me a greater sense of control over the narrative and my image. I should probably fire her. She still thinks that “monster” is a way of making trauma bearable, rather than what actually happened. Rather than what you actually are.

“That’s what you wrote, Lucille. Right there. Monster.”

“That was private.” Her cheeks burned, a bad taste flooding her mouth. The taste of a nightmare, somewhere between the acrid flavours of terror and humiliation.

“You understand why he may be concerned.”

“That was private, where did you get that?”

“Why do you insist on calling Tristan De Silva a monster?”

She stared at the men in suits. Her ears rang. Of course they would wear suits; black, pristine and shapeless things that gave them the quality of shadows in the corner of her eye. And of course they would be men. She wanted them out of her living room. They sucked all of the oxygen away and seemed to fill the space completely. She would have to move again.

“Lucille.” The suit closest to her sighed. “Mr De Silva has been very patient since the incident, but this must stop. Just look at what you’ve done to yourself.”

“Where did you get my diary?” Her voice shuddered, splintered. She willed herself to stay strong.

The suits exchanged looks with each other.

She wished Pannie was there.

“Mrs De Silva-” the suit began.

She lurched to her feet and the nearest suits, except the sighing one, flinched back. A synchrony of raised palms. She didn’t remember standing.

“Lucille.” The suit corrected himself, looking at her with a gentle pity. “You published it this morning, don’t you remember?”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Mr De Silva is very concerned.”

“Mr De Silva can go and drown himself in holy water.” Her eyes had begun to burn suspiciously hot, and her fists trembled despite her best efforts to control them. “Get out of my house.”

The suits exchanged more glances, as incomprehensible to her as eavesdropping on a foreign tongue. “Your husband has been very generous. Very indulgent. Are you planning to continue these accusations? He hasn’t pressed charges. He could.”

She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth at that, and could practically see the smile on Tristan’s face. Saint that he was, Tristan De Silva. Her throat lodged tight and she crumpled to sit on her sofa again, curling her hands in her lap like used tissues. The scars stood raised red and white against her pale skin, a criss-cross of X’s like the kisses on the end of a lover’s letter. X marks the spot. She said nothing. There was nothing to say and they all knew it. They didn’t leave.

“That was private,” she whispered. She wasn’t even allowed to have ‘nothing’ anymore.

A small flicker of a smile twisted the suit’s bland face too, and he leaned in and took her hands almost kindly. He enfolded her fingers easily in his own unblemished, un-calloused ones. He waited for her to meet his eyes like all of the other times he saw her, though she could never recall the colour or anything about them when he left. Nor his face, or voice.

“Monsters don’t exist, Mrs De Silva,” he said.

The official version of the story goes like this: I tried to kill my husband. I took a knife out of the kitchen and cut a hundred X’s into my body. Then I tried to put the knife in his chest, into his windpipe, into the pit of his belly.

The servants had to wrestle me off you. I kicked and screamed like the hysterical psycho wife men have in stories to justify their love of a new woman – some sweet thing that saves them and happens to be a younger, prettier version of the old model.

They wanted me locked up, sedated, pitied and condemned as traumatized by everything that happened before the incident. You were generous. Angels could not do better by their hideous madwomen in the attic.

The unofficial version, my version, goes like this: I tried to kill my husband. I took a knife out of the kitchen and tried to put it into his chest, his windpipe, into the pit of his belly.

You tutted, you laughed, you picked your head off the floor and set it carefully back on your shoulders.

X marks the spot of every woman you killed who wasn’t me.

Officially, there is no evidence of this whatsoever.

Palette Cleanser Character Study

Gabriel loved broken things – he loved putting them back together. Henry was a stained glass window of a boy. Startling colours, beauty, torment, and absolutely shattered into a million pieces. He loved him instantly.

He first saw Henry from across the grotty union club; arms in the air, swaying in the flash of club lights that could sometimes hold the same holy shine as stained glass windows themselves could. The floor was sticky with spilled drinks and the crunch of plastic cups, heaving with bodies and sweat.
He didn’t know, then, that Henry’s eyes were the soft grey of a beloved old shirt and the beginning of a storm. He didn’t know that he walked along streets and played a game of deciding which bush, or building, would be the best to hide in if someone suddenly set ravenous hounds upon his heels. He didn’t know that he had a scar on his left hip from when he’d scraped all along his side when he was seven.

He didn’t know, but he knew all of those things.

They met properly at a party a week after that, clutching beers squashed in a corner while Jeremy Shore bored them all with a passionate lecture on the superiority of French avante garde movies, and insisted the only music worth listening to was A-ha.

They first kissed on the beach two months later.

Henry had been dwarfed in Gabriel’s hoodie, hands plunged into the pockets and the tips of his ears and his nose red with cold. The sand had been chilly beneath them in the evening, its paleness the same paleness of Henry’s skin and its softness littered by old bottle tops and bits of glass that people had buried like treasure.

It had been a desperate sort of kiss, Gabriel’s favourite kind. A kiss that redeemed monsters and burnt worlds and tasted like salt. Henry smiled and kissed him again, gently, like Gabriel was the one held together by careful hands and bits of affection. Hands roamed slowly, warming quickly as they pressed close.
Nobody knew them there.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous.”

“Don’t,” Henry looked away.
Henry never really spoke about the past but he sketched it often in a thick black artbook with dog-eared corners. He chewed on his lip with a concentration so intent that he left small indents where his teeth had pressed for minutes on end, as if Gabriel had just kissed him. He smudged his fingers and his brow black and grey with graphite and charcoal, and offered up rolling storms, snarling lips and gleaming eyes.

But he liked drawing Gabriel best.