David's Short Fiction

The morning sun had barely begun to burn the dew from the lavender when the visitor arrived.

The coffee shop on the corner of Fleet Street was Julie and Morven's sanctuary from the relentless grind of criminal law.

Beneath the gnarled roots of the ancient hawthorn, where moonlight dares not tread, the cauldron rests.

Simon had always considered himself a creature of habit, finding comfort in the predictable rhythm of his days.

My Dearest Elsie, I scarce have the strength to hold this pen, my fingers are near numb from scrubbing silver and folding napkins into what Master calls "swans" and I call "lumpy potatoes."

She sat at the table in their spacious kitchen, anticipating his arrival home.

The woman opposite me on the train would not stop talking at me!

March 21st is World Poetry Day.

He opened his eyes to be greeted by shards of sunlight effortlessly radiating into the room.