I will be posting my latest short stories here, which often take as long to write as a long one. I hope you will enjoy these explorations of love, relationships and the human condition. If you enjoy them, please sign up below for Perceptions, my newsletter. You will get a subscriber-only story straight away, and be the first to hear about new stories and publication news.
Sarah Johnson, Therapist, explores the complex nature of forgiveness and self-recrimination through the moment of a therapy appointment.
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The office sits on the third floor of a modern office building. All glass windows, quiet corridors and private offices. I run my fingers slowly over the engraved nameplate outside the office. "Suite 306. Sarah Johnson, Therapist." I'm in the right place. I open the door into an empty waiting room with a sparse array of comfortable chairs, magazines and neutral décor.
After a moment, the light turns green, and my palm is slick as I turn the handle. (subscribers: continue reading)
The 'girl who saved me' is a haunting flash fiction story, following the emotion of a father reflecting on the impact of addiction on his daughter. This story was a finalist for the 2025 Royal Palm Literary Awards.
Leaving the warmth, the bright lights, and the tiring crowd behind me, I walk out into the darkness of this cool June night and I weep. I sob like I never have before. All that is before me now is the multitude of stars, the weight of certainty and a fundamental belief in love. I know that every day for the rest of my life, I will cry when remembering this moment. (continue reading)
'Ginger Biscuits' is a light-hearted flash fiction story, finding humor in dark moments and exploring the inherent reserved nature of the British man.
Waterloo Train station at 3:30 pm on a Tuesday is as glamorous as it sounds. The evening rush hasn’t started, so it is busy with tourists, lost souls, homeless people seeking respite from the cold Spring rain, and people like me whose schedules placed them here against their will. Two distinct, loud chimes sound from the intercom, followed by an automated voice announcing, “The 3:45 pm train to Portsmouth is. Delayed.” “Yes, dear,” I think. “We have already seen that from the messages on the antiquated wooden schedule boards.” (continue reading)