The Woman in Purple

woman standing at beach

Hurrah, my short story, “The Woman in Purple”, has been published Commuter Lit. Here’s a taster – click the link to read the full story.

Someone is trying to kill me: I can feel their hunger knocking on my bones. Hear it. Taste it. Like someone’s hurling rocks at the glassy surface of a pond in winter. But I refuse to crack.

When I open my eyes there’s no sign of someone. No noose, no sword, no gun. No shard of ice or jagged piece of mirror. Only me.

Of course, the someone could be hiding in the wardrobe; in the ensuite bathroom; underneath the bed. Yet it’s too bland here to be a murder scene: a mid-range hotel room, decked out in shades of oatmeal designed to arouse neither pleasure nor offence. There’s nothing to snag the eye when setting out in comfortable shoes with a street-map and city-guide; nothing to spoil clandestine couplings in the conference coffee break. Perhaps I’ll elude my assassin if I stay within these pastel-papered walls. I’ve no other reason to be here. I’m not at a conference or on a city break. I’m not at work or on holiday of any description, but neither am I at home: my apartment has more personality than this. I like bright colours, bold statement pieces and, unlike here, I’m never anaesthetised by the babble of TV.