Sunday Writers’ Club Blog
Stories and more from Sunday Writers’ Club members
The Sting in the Tale by Brigid Whoriskey
Daily Gazette, November 2025
THE LAST WASP HAS DEPARTED
The Department for Pest Extermination has finally declared the region to be hornet free. After a concerted campaign to eradicate the venomous swarms that terrorised our communities for years, they have finally done it.
The Invitation by Franziska Singer
“Would it be okay if I came along this evening?”
“Absolutely! I’ve been waiting for you to say these words.”
Leila laughed. “Hold on, I am trying to put on my shoes.” She held the receiver between her neck and chin, while she slipped on her pumps.
Gravestones in the Sunshine by Elary Wakefield
Good morning, Maria.
I didn’t know the person who was only feet below the ground.
The weather today is grey and rainy; I think you’d like it.
She is just a great listener.
My Childhood Ghost by Keith Gray
I want you to imagine the fuzzy glass of a bathroom window. This window looks out onto a square back garden. It’s nighttime. Now imagine a 7 year-old boy standing in the bathroom in front of the window cleaning his teeth before bedtime. He’s in his favourite pyjamas – they have Muppets on them. The boy is cleaning his teeth and staring out at the shapes of an apple tree and a garden shed. Of course, he can’t see them properly, can’t see them clearly, because of the fuzzy glass and the fact that it’s dark out in the garden while it’s bright in the bathroom.
Morning Woods by Natasa Pap
It’s still dark, but the sky is getting brighter. The night is slowly ending, which means I should go home soon. I finish eating the field mouse I caught a few hours earlier and take a moment to observe my surroundings.
It’s quiet. The trees are tall, thick and magnificent. Their trunks appear darker than usual, but the branches are still. The whole forest is covered in this dark blue tint that is getting brighter with each passing minute.
A Mere Speck by Tina Eisl
I don’t like my eyes. They reveal too much. I will never look at anyone straight on, I will never let my picture be taken. I cannot be captured.
The mask I wear is too easy to pick apart when I am seen.
“Gather up,” they say.
I have perfected hiding myself.
Dance-Break by Eleanor Updegraff
I was woken this morning by the flash of a blue light, an ambulance speeding fretfully towards dawn. In the bold white glare of last night’s moon, still high and pouring light through my window, I was uncertain for a moment where the flashing was coming from, if it was real or just some trick of my vision. Only when I heard the distant wail of the siren, switched on as soon as the vehicle left the village, did I know for sure what I’d been seeing.
Becoming Me by Michaela Fricek
The story of my origins is difficult to explain, and it certainly doesn’t align with what’s written on my birth certificate. As you know, a name must be listed for both the mother and the father, along with the child’s own name. But the names on that document don’t tell the real story. The two people listed weren’t truly my parents.
The Girl in the Water by Franziska Singer
“Hi,” a tiny voice says.
“Did you say something?” I ask and turn to my friend.
“I didn’t. I thought you said hi,” Lisa says.
“I didn’t say hi, I thought you did!”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Weird.”
The Sound of Dystopia and Hope by Connie Phlipot
The rumbling sound was coming from some distance, perhaps two or three kilometers. Antonia couldn’t tell if the noise was regressing or coming closer. She stood still and listened, carefully, hardly daring to breathe. The clumping continued at the same pace, the same intensity. It was the rhythmic pounding of horses hooves, not advancing nor retreating. Galloping in place on an equine treadmill. Or maybe they weren’t horses at all.
The Game of Trust by Brigid Whoriskey
A child stands, feet firm on the ground
Shrieks of glee, a joyful sound
Heart jumping
adrenaline pumping
Breath held for the backwards fall
Arms catch, the thrill of it all
In the carefree childhood game of trust
between the trees by Milena Kozlowska
quietly, we emerge
drawn up from beneath the earth
pushing through dirt,
nudging aside leaves,
burrowing into roots and trees
Stories from Burg Rappottenstein 2025 Part 2
Here we present two more short pieces of nature writing inspired by Eleanor Updegraff’s ‘The Writer in the World’ workshop which took place in the forests surrounding Burg Rappottenstein during our 2025 Writing Retreat.
Stories from Burg Rappottenstein 2025 Part 1
Walking back from the train station, I couldn’t wait to get back to my own apartment, my own space. Going away is always great, and I love the change in scenery, but there is something special about returning from an adventure.
Built Before Time Began by Marianne Thatcher
In 2004 I went with 32 others on a spiritual journey to Egypt. We went to Dendera, Karnak, Cairo, Tel el Amarna and more. Each one with its own mystical uniqueness. We were requested by our group leader to please wear white and a white scarf, as there were so many tourists, so she could recognise those from her group.
Her Pencil Case by Michaela Fricek
Her pencil case was unique to her; she had had it for quite some time. It was magenta pink—just the colour she had wished for—and it consisted of two large compartments.
Restocking the Shelves by Doksa Papachartofyli
Restocking shelves at the supermarket might not exactly be science, nor is it art, but at least it gives my cucumber-thin arms a bit of a workout. Mom says not to worry, the rest of me will fill in as I get older, but she isn’t the one who is 17 and looks like a dollop of putty streaked out into a spaghetto, is she?
The Sunflower by Connie Phlipot
Exhaust fumes seeped through the rusty edges of the car’s floorboards. It was a western model, Audi or something less posh, but not the Lada or Moskvich Bella had expected. Once a nice car, an enviable one in fact, but the years of pothole-dappled roads had destroyed the undercarriage, damaged the muffler, not to mention the state of the wheels and door frames. And all that had undoubtedly happened before the war.
Today’s Tomorrow by Tina Eisl
I lie awake and think about death. Specifically, my own. Listen, anyone would, really, in my situation, with your own demise marked clear as day on your calendar.
When I was but five years old, happily dangling my legs off the edge of a pier, watching seagulls circle above, a man grabbed my arm and pronounced that tomorrow would be the day that I died. Not the tomorrow from back then, but today’s tomorrow.
Daffodil Cake by Georgia Holmer
Eat the flowers, he said.
What?!
She instinctively stepped further away from him. They were standing on a small flagstone pathway in the middle of the garden. Her garden.
How Can You Make Them Believe That You Miss Them More Than They Miss You? by Cristina Colamonici
The bigger the feeling, the deeper the wound, the scarier the scar…the sharper the words.
First, in my head.
After, on the paper.
But on my lips? Never.
Homage To Pink Lady Cheeks by Chloë McGrane
“I will NEVER enjoy hiking,” I snap.
I kick a rock for dramatic effect, watching it crumble down the green mountainside that I am perched on. A hawk circles above my head, screeching. I wish it was acceptable for me to flap my arms and screech, I think, staring across at a set of rocky, snow-tipped fangs in front of me.
As The Ice Melts by Hebatollah Ashraf
Did I really owe her that promise?! I wondered, in pain!
I think I was lying on a sheet of ice, which used to be water in summer. Coming back to my senses, I realised I was bleeding. I must have jumped without looking. “What was I thinking?!” As I looked at her, she stood assured and stopped her meows.
Lightbringer Mender of Sweaters By Loli Owl
“I am the Lightbringer, Flasher of Brights, Herald of the New Day, Extremely Bright and very likely to be squinting. I am the Lightbringer, Enemy of Darkness, Dust Bunnies, Spiders and clutter of all kinds. I flush out the disorganized, shine on things ignored! I am the Lightbringer…!”
Tell the Story of Mending Clothes by La Ruche
Grandma slowly took her old, gold-rimmed glasses and put them on even more slowly, if slower than that was at all possible, on her nose. Then with trembling hands she lifted the beautiful dress Victoria had brought to her for repair. The elegant mid-calf dress was a piece of history grandma was holding in her trembling hands – no, not only a piece of fashion history but an important piece of their family history.
The Tide by Natasa Pap
As the sun was slowly lowering itself into the Adriatic Sea, the light of its evening glow painted the city of Zadar in beautiful shades of gold and orange.
A lovely couple was passing through Zadar’s old town, admiring the ancient Roman ruins decorating the park in the town’s centre. They crossed the street and strolled through the small souvenir market, but as they got closer to the docks, they could feel the fresh, salty breeze of the sea and the voices of the seagulls echoing in the wind.
The Blacksmith by Connie Phlipot
From the depths of the valley rang the clinking and clanging of iron against iron. The sound began before dawn, just as the birds’ twitter announced the arrival of the sun, and continued throughout the day. Some local inhabitants noted a minute-long silence around 1:00 pm, presumably as the blacksmith ate a sandwich. But others swore he never stopped until the sun nestled down behind the mountain.
Old Hands by Caroline Stevenson
Sheila tilted her head at an unexpected ringing of the front doorbell. The timing was inconvenient; she was partway through doing the dishes and her rubber gloves were covered with soap suds. The cutlery she was washing was brand new, just like most of the stuff in her new place, and rinsing off the residual dust that had come with it from the homeware store felt like an important initiation ceremony, a rite of passage. If it’s important, they’ll ring again, she reasoned.
The Golden Oldies by Marianne Thatcher
“Good morning.” Wrinkled, white faced and breathing heavily with a loud outsigh, Mavis heaved
herself through the door and onto the nearest chair. She sat several minutes not talking, the effort
of her 'good morning' and arrival having taken the breath needed for conversation.
The Winter Storm by Michaela Fricek
“It is so cold. I absolutely hate winter. I could sleep until the first flowers in spring wake me up.” Casey heard her alarm clock ring the third time. “Oh no, I do not feel like getting up. My bed simply loves me and it is so cozy”.
Her phone rang: “Hi Casey, what about going for a walk in the Vienna Woods.” It was Chiara. “Look out of the window. The world is covered in white. How fabulous.”
A Bookish Directive by Marlene Woods
Open the pages of a used book.
Close your eyes and
bury your nose in it.
Inhale the most glorious scent—
the aroma of time.
A Chain of Books by Jasmine Fassl
It was a small box, wrapped in brown parcel paper, with brown string. Dora stood in the post office, puzzled. She’d just picked up this parcel after she received a notification slip in her mailbox, but could not imagine who might have sent it to her. She hadn’t ordered anything online in weeks. The parcel did not have any logos or company stickers on it. Only her name and address. Dora shook her head. She could not just leave it here, so she decided to take it home.
Welkin by Eleanor Updegraff
The sky above the Gare de l’Est is smudged with pink. Thick smears of it hang low above the steel roof, candyfloss dropped on a carpet of silver. Just past five and the sun is setting, dusk pooled thick in the streets that throb with life. Here, at the end of the road, steps lead down to the station, and taxis pull up to the green metal gates in an endless slow procession. At a table under the awning over Café les Deux Gares, two men sit facing the traffic, each with a glass of wine. I wonder can they see the sky, its soft display of colour. The contrails left by passing planes, a cross at the peak of heaven.
The Window Box of Number 18 by Katya Hooker-Winkler
Overflowing with yellow petunias
bursting with blue dahlias
speckled with fuchsia geraniums
splashed with purple lavender
it beckons your eye
so vivid
in a world of
grey streets and cold clouds
as pedestrians hug their shoulders
to their ears
and hurry home
Fernweh by Marianne Thatcher
The bungalow with the new, white draught-proof doors and green velvet curtains fluttering in the breeze from the open window, gave a certain satisfaction of mission accomplished. Open to the vastness of the ocean, which breathed in onto the beach and then out again to sea. They could reveal moody currents, sometimes gently lapping at the shore, other times treacherous with waves strong enough to suck anyone in who dares them.
The Edge of the World by Mary Anglberger
I somehow knew, I’d make it there one day, but when I did, it did come as a surprise.
It was June, it was hot and it was dusty, the sub-Saharan landscape as bleak as it gets – endless variations of brown, the occasional scraggy bush or leafless tree, now and then a goat herder with a few skinny animals in the distance, looking like stick figures in a modern painting.
Vellichor by Connie Phlipot
The sensation inched up Dahlia’s nose, settling in her eyes, tearing them, clouding her contact lens. Stiffly, she rose from her seat on the floor, pushed a box of papers out of her way to reach the tissue box. Where were those damned tissues? Knowing the effect of the room’s atmosphere on her sinuses, as soon as she entered the house she’d rummaged through the other rooms in search of tissues.
Light Drifters by Adrian M. Bran
Quick! Quick! There’s some kind of tunnel there, he said. It might not be comfortable, but it’s certainly better than facing the storms!
We already felt light electricity caressing our hands, connecting us to the crowded skies. We rushed through the cave mouth like it was the warm, cosy door to a hotel room. A small hideout was all we needed, and this gateway appeared right on time.
Writing About Friendship and The List by Keith Gray
Here’s a list, in alphabetical order, of my closest friends from school:
– Andy Briggs
– Bub
– Eddie
– Steve B
– Steve H
The Edible Gaze by Loli Owl
The most tired eyes I have ever seen were served to me at midnight upon a gelatinous silicone platter, globules contained within an artificial mucus derived from sturgeon with a piercing blue iris formed out of a freeze-dried butterfly’s wings. The corneas were a slightly jaundiced shade of eggshell, and no doubt contained some ingredient obtained from the crushed embryos of some sort of wronged animal.
Space & Time by Doxa Papachartofyli
I woke up on the wrong side of bed today. And when I mean “wrong”, I don’t mean, Oh no, I somehow rolled over to the right side and I am very much a leftie. No, nothing of the sort. Today, I woke up in my bed, but in a different century. I woke up in a lacuna.
“I will slap her, I swear I will,” I murmur as I prop myself on my elbows, trying to breathe through the tight corset I seem to be wearing.
Deirdre’s Secret Ally by Michaela Fricek
“How will I ever learn the role of Hatshepsut? Impossible!” Deirdre groaned as she flopped herself dramatically onto her sofa. For some days, her stomach had been in knots, accompanied by sleepless nights. Despite loving her job as an actress at the Abbey Theatre, she was seriously contemplating quitting.
The Stage Was Set by Lea Gremm
The stage was set, the lights turned on.
For a minute, they were blinding Jules who sat in the front row of the empty auditorium, hair in a messy bun and eyes burning and red from lying awake all night, playing a hundred different scenarios of this day in her head until she finally fell asleep.
Meet Me At The Millennium Bridge by Jasmine Fassl
The bridge creaked in the wind, the cables singing tautly. It was the end of October and the water of the Thames was choppy, boats bouncing on its white peaks. Sarah stood on the South side of the river, by the bridge head, shivering.
She felt vulnerable and unsure standing by the railing, feeling the rain soak into her jacket. This felt different than last weekend, in the warmth of her living room. Back then, when she’d found her old diary and started to read it, cuddled up on the sofa, surrounded by moving boxes.
What Are You Willing To Sacrifice? by Natasa Pap
The law of equivalent exchange dictates that if one wishes to obtain something, then he must first sacrifice something that’s of equal value.
Life functions on the strict principle whether we accept that or not.
A Free-Range Family Feud by Caroline Stevenson
Sisters Annette and Dorothy waved to each other from their cars – Annette’s a sleek Jaguar, Dorothy’s a sturdy 4×4 – as they both pulled up at the entrance of Fresh and Wild, the new restaurant taking the gastro scene by storm in the suburbs of Bristol. Their reunion was seasonal and always Dorothy’s initiative, as though the first leaf falling in autumn fired a synapse in her brain: That reminds me, I ought to ring Annette.
Samizdat by Connie Phlipot
The keys clattered in the backroom, audible during pauses in the din of excited voices at the kitchen table. Tat-tat-tat. Silence. An elderly woman, kerchiefed, opened the kitchen door.
“What’s up, Anina?”
“Ribbon. Out of it.”
Andrzej sighed and fumbled in his leather backpack. He held up a partially used typewriter ribbon.
If You Had To Kill Someone: Post-Apocalyptic Version by Franziska Singer
“If you had to kill someone.” she said and stirred her drink absentmindedly, letting her gaze wander around the people in the garden and the huge tent behind me.
“If I had to … unalive someone? But why,” I said laughing.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Uxorious by Doxa Papachartofyli
The wailing is loud and pierces through the night’s quiet, a needle being jammed unceremoniously in a pin cushion. My actual cushion is soaked by a bucket of early postpartum sweat, potently infused by fenugreek. Trying to peek through the dense cloud of sleep, I absently notice what the midwife told me. When fenugreek is making your sweat smell like maple syrup, it has hit the threshold needed for the milk supply to increase. The wailing now is more familiar of a sound, but I am still unable to wake up. Let’s hope the milk supply will go up indeed. Wait. Milk. Yes. Baby. I have one of those now. And it is crying.
Lavender Blue by Natasa Pap
The sun was slowly disappearing behind the hills as Du Lan, finally, walked through the main gate of his master’s lavish estate. The giant gate was made of strong wood, painted in red and black colours. It was decorated with gold ornaments meant to bring good luck to the inhabitants.
Confessions by Julia Parger
There was a certain quality about her. I never quite knew what it was or where it came from, because it appeared out of nothing. And then again, it was everything. I could talk to her like I could only talk to my dog back when I was a child. Confessing everything because there was no way she would tell anyone. It was way better than having to confess to a priest, confiding in a true friend.
Albedo by Connie Phlipot
Marjorie scrolled through life unobserved, unnoticed. She walked with an economy of motion, never dawdling, never hurrying; her pace always suited the situation. She spoke quietly, but not so softly that anyone had to strain to understand. The appropriate volume, like the appropriate pace. Not gregarious, but not so laconic that anyone would remark on her lack of words. Questions, answers, comments. Just what was needed. Nothing more.
Are You Normal? by Franziska Singer
I am normal
In the way that I breathe and feel
Have thoughts and needs
Am human
Winged Valkyrie by Doxa Papachartofyli
Sabine shut the door behind her, letting her bag land with a heavy thud on the floor, as she rolled her neck, delighting at the cracking melody it produced.
Another day she’d survived the fiery inferno of the Athenian summer. Well, half a day. She had decided an Austrian girl could only take so much and had taken her leave from the University.
These Old Slippers by Jasmine Fassl
She decided to take the lift. Normally, Nina would walk, never missing an opportunity to be ‘her best self’, ‘living her best life’ and knowing that ‘every little bit can make a difference’. She was hoping, rather than knowing, that 3 flights of stairs would fulfil these Instagram promises.
But today Nina could not bear taking even one step more than absolutely necessary before taking off her bloody high heels.
I Quit! by Michaela Fricek
‘We care so deeply for you. You are an excellent teacher. However, the fact that two students have threatened to jump out of the window within a week must have something to do with you. We’ll send you to the public health officer. He will determine whether you are fit for work. In the meantime, it would be best if you went on sick leave immediately.’
Dad Music by Keith Gray
I believe my taste in music has gotten better with age. My daughter would disagree. I enjoy songs with meaning. Songs with inspirational and emotive lyrics crafted by hard-won wisdom and layered over resonating guitar riffs. Songs that make me feel. My daughter wants to dance.
The Last Thing on the Menu by Martina Pranic
At noon, the bell had just rung for lunch. From every corner of the makeshift school premises, young learners streamed into the grand old pub that served as a dining hall, suffused as always with the redolence of spilt beer, damp cutlery and steaming gravy. It was the final day of the awkwardly titled “Language Labyrinth Summer Symposium”. A camp of sorts, it was held every year in a different, middle-of-nowhere coastal village selected for the honour through a highly competitive lottery.
Left-Over Fizz by Natasa Pap
The heavy, thick, vine-colored curtains prevented the sunlight from completely penetrating their room and bathing it in its golden rays.
Edward rubbed the sleep from his eyes and shifted in bed to look at the small, digital clock on his nightstand.
It was five minutes past noon.
Flowers in her Hair by Greta Lane
I was on the floor in the middle of my kitchen, kneeling in front of a battered plastic storage box, when my daughter ran in from the back yard. Her dirty feet slapped on the tile and a pink cape flapped behind her; as she passed me, I caught her around her waist and tried to kiss her.
“No!” she protested, leaning away from me, full of five-year-old indignation. “No kisses!”
Picking-Up A Foreign Language by Chloë McGrane
I grew up with four languages in my household: English, Irish, German and Sarcasm. If you are familiar with the language family tree, Sarcasm is an unrecognized branch of the Anglo-Frisian variety. Some may even argue that it is a dialect more than a language. However, I have found it to be specific to the English-speaking contingents.
Paa Patrickish by Michaela Fricek
For a long time Paa had feared the 13th emotion of the universe. She did not mind all the other ones: anemonish, bored, sunflowery or even scared – just to name some of them.
Feast of Orthodoxy by Doxa Papachartofyli
“Doxa! Come down, everyone’s already here!” The young girl sighed and sadly eyed the book on her lap. It would have to wait for the next couple of excruciating hours to be over.
Today was her name day, and those were a big deal in Greece. The Feast of Orthodoxy.
Heart by Hebatollah Ashraf
“So I rolled the dice and it told me to follow my heart. But the dice isn’t supposed to tell us what to do, is it?”
“This is the game, Mum. You agreed to play with me!”
What Makes You More Than You? by Natasa Pap
Every person on this planet has something special about them. A certain skill or a talent that is a very important part of everyone’s personality. People find themselves in the world of music, science, art, sport, academics, spiritualism, etc.
I made my very first drawing when I was three years old. It was nothing special, but I loved it with all my heart.
The Echo by Connie Phlipot
AH—Aah—aaah—aaaah… The buildings on each side of the street threw the sound back and forth, softer, gentler each time, a ball seeping air, finally deflating with a soundless thud. There was no one else in sight. Anneli ran down the street in the shadows of the buildings. Her feet clapped against the pavement. The walls clapped back. She put her hands over her ears. A rat dashed into the light of a street lamp. She screamed. The walls resounded.
Like Fine Wine by Doxa Papachartofyli
It’s well after midnight, so this means she’s out and I’m up.
I’m Anxiety, and I will be your host for tonight. Well, or at least until I decide to wake her up and have her vaguely worry about something.
The Perfect Pint by Brigid Whoriskey
There are 170 million pints of Guinness poured on St Patrick’s day in pubs and taverns all over the world. The perfect ones will take 119.5 seconds to pull. Now, anyone who’s ever imbibed in black magic – or the black stuff or a pint of plain or whatever you choose to call Irish champagne – will know that not every bartender pours the perfect pint.
The Shark by Julia Parger
“I swim with the big fish now”, Robert thought to himself as he glanced out the window of the 22nd floor. He observed illuminated buildings, the flickering lights of cars passing by and the silhouettes of people wandering around. Robert had just come back to his hotel suite from a meeting with his bosses. The big bosses. The international league of excellence.
Leyla’s choice by Sandra Voelker
The persistent knocking on the door sent sound waves through the apartment.
“Open up! We know you are in there!”
Bang, bang, bang, it went on.
“Open up! Please! We will have to break the door down.”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Louder again.
My First Valentine’s Day Card by Doxa Papachartofyli
Mama’s wishes were for her to see me settled in a good job and with a good girl. Well, if everything goes according to plan, the second part of her wishes will come into fruition just like the first part already has. Being a warden in a female maximum security prison might not be exactly small talk material, but it pays surprisingly well and offers dental.
Fight, Freeze or Flight by Michaela Fricek
“Is this your first time flying to South Africa?”
Furkan heard the chubby middle-aged woman with light brown curls who sat next to him asking. “What a curious question?” he pondered, while he heard himself answering: “Yes, there is a specialist in Cape Town who is well-known for treating my disease. I also want to take some time to see the country. What about you?”
Recipe Makes About Forty by Doxa Papachartofyli
At seven in the morning, it was unfathomably, stiflingly hot, and in Sofia’s aunt’s kitchen, with the oven already hard at work, even more so. Sofia stepped in, and went straight to the sink, hands supporting herself while she leaned forward and took in the view.
Longing by Janice Cutting
There were strict unwritten rules on the underground. There had to be. There was no other way to be OK with someone’s arm pit squashed up against your nose.
No eye contact.
No speaking.
No acknowledgement in any way of your fellow human beings.
Can Art Ever Be Pure? by Caroline Stevenson
The purest kind of art tends to get classed as “development” – and that is the product of whatever a toddler decides to create when left unsupervised with a bunch of crayons. In absence of verbal explanation, any shapes vaguely resembling humans amongst a kaleidoscope of scribbles, are assumed to be its parents, when really the child could already be harbouring ambitions to draft a successful comic series filled with superheroes. If we are gracious enough to credit the child’s creative output as art, then what makes it pure?
Full Empty Black Space by Connie Phlipot
The emptiness swelled, engulfed and swallowed her into its nothingness. Her feet frozen into the the equally black ground, the chilled air sucked the moisture and warmth from her skin. She lost her sense of smell, her mouth was dry, she couldn’t taste her own saliva. There was no sound. Her own heart was inaudible.
A Fresh Perspective by Phil Cain
It seemed wrong to intrude on what was clearly a painful and private moment when I first passed. But she was still there as I was about to leave the gallery twenty minutes later, alone, rooted to the spot, visibly upset.
It seemed wrong not to at least ask if she was okay.
Forgotten Stone Hero by Marianne Thatcher
Statues with benign expressions hover above the front buildings watching the daily goings on of people and vehicles, while protective large wrought iron gates suggest the possibility of needing to close them at some time.
Secret Santa Story Share Part 3 by Janice Cutting and Mary Anglberger
This is our third and final Secret Santa Story Share posting – two creative writing pieces inspired by the same prompt. Thank you again to all the SWCers who wrote seasonal stories and shared them with one another.
Secret Santa Story Share Part 2 by Jane Dudeney and Jasmine Fassl
This years’ Secret Santa Story Share was our best yet, with more of our writers getting involved than we’ve ever had before. Thank you to all the SWCers who wrote seasonal stories and shared them with one another. But of course we also wanted to share some of the pieces with everyone else! Here is part two of our Secret Santa Story Share blog – two pieces inspired by the same prompt.
Secret Santa Story Share Part 1 by Connie Phlipot and Chloë McGrane
This years’ Secret Santa Story Share was our best yet, with more of our writers getting involved than we’ve ever had before. Thank you to all the SWCers who wrote seasonal stories and shared them with one another. But of course we also wanted to share some of the pieces with everyone else! Here are the first two pieces inspired by the same prompt.
‘Kalady’ by Connie Phlipot
Two goats stood up in the middle of the wagon, rocking it. Vera crashed into the creature next to her, a cross between Father Christmas and the devil grinned wickedly in her face. Vera didn’t know who he represented. There was a full panoply of characters for this season, her grandmother had explained it all to her a long time ago, but she didn’t remember much of it.
What is a Ghost? by Emma Downey
The first ghost I was aware of was the Banshee. I’m sure you’ve heard of her, the weeping, wailing female harbinger of death native to Ireland and Scotland. When her cry is heard you know that you or someone belonging to you’s time is up. When I was at school we used to scare each other with stories of the Banshee. We pictured the terrifying red eyed woman dressed a white shroud, sitting by the road combing her long hair. We believed that finding a comb on the path meant that the Banshee was around and that could mean bad things for us. Once a group of us argued over which of us had first spotted the comb and was therefore ‘in for it’.
Autumn has Started by Dominik Jemec
Alex was sitting on the bus on his way home after a long day at the office. There was an army of kids that took over most seats and standing spaces on the bus. He could have given the kid staring at him his seat, but he just stared back at him, making faces. It had been a long day at work, chock-full of meetings accompanied by deafening noise from construction work. He couldn’t catch a moment of work at work.
My Cousin Roger by Connie Phlipot
I hadn’t seen Cousin Roger for a few years. He was not, for a variety of reasons, a favourite of the family. I was the only one as far as I knew who kept in touch with Roger, albeit sporadically, usually meeting when we ended up in the same city. My siblings considered Roger a first cousin twice removed. Not in accordance with the technical definition of the term which would have meant he was two generations ahead of us, our grandparents’ cousin.
Joy by Lea Gremm
I wake up in my old childhood bedroom like I have done for the past six months. The walls are still draped in the same ugly yellow wallpaper that I chose as a seven-year-old and they are closing in on me as soon as I open my eyes. I didn’t choose to be here. Nothing has ever felt more like admitting defeat to me than moving back into my parents’ house–the one place that I couldn’t wait to escape from not even ten years earlier.
We Are The 4A by Jasmine Fassl
‘Why does this milk jug have spots?’
There was silence in the class.
‘I clearly explained that I wanted plain pottery pieces,’ Mrs Witherington hissed.
The children looked to the floor. Nobody spoke. There was nothing to say. The jug on the very left of the teacher’s desk at the front clearly had spots. They sparkled in all sorts of colours on a brilliant white background. It stood out against the other 24 uniformly single-coloured jugs around it.
Water to Water by Caroline Stevenson
My first Viennese swim didn’t just mark the start of a new chapter in my life, but also the start of a friendship. I never hung out with Cousin Jane as a child, owing to the fact that she was already 26 when I was born and, what’s more, she worked overseas. In Austria, so I’d heard. I’d met her on a handful of occasions; the big family ones like a 90th birthday party or a funeral which would lure her over to the UK.
The Dragon Inhales by Greta Lane
Trigger warning – pregnancy loss
Two walls of the pastel obstetrician’s office were papered with babies. Fat babies, cute babies, old-man looking babies. Bald babies festooned with those ridiculous baby bows; suit-wearing babies propped up on blankets, the drool miraculously photoshopped out. Newborns impossibly wrapped in linen: little sleeping acorns posed under the gaze of their adoring parents.
Time Is Not There To Be Saved by Jane Dudeney
Just because Sunday Writers’ Club is on summer break, doesn’t mean our members have rested their pens. Some, like Jane Dudeney, have kept their creativity flowing no matter the weather. So, we’re pleased to present her latest short story here for your summer reading pleasure. We hope you enjoy reading “Time is Not There to Be Saved” by Jane Dudeney.
SWC Stories Inspired by the Kiki Kogelnik Exhibition in Vienna
Sunday Writers’ Club organises a creative writing session on almost every Sunday of the year, bringing people from all over the world together. We write and share our newly created works with one another.
On Sunday 18th June 2023 we were invited by the Bank Austria Kunstforum to create a special writing session inspired by the exhibition ‘Now Is The Time’ by Austrian-born, New York-based artist Kiki Kogelnik.
Here are some of the stories and poems which were created that morning in response to the exhibition.
The Dragon Inhales by Natasa Pap
Miss Charlotte Veil never liked Mr. Alexander Law, her father’s friend from Oxford.
The man had arrived this morning and would be staying with them for two days, unfortunately, helping her father with some legal business.
At first Charlotte thought it was just her imagination, but now she was sure that Mr. Law wanted something from her. He had been looking at her in a strange way, a way no 46-year-old man should be looking at an 18-year-old girl.
The Dragon Inhales by Jan Cutting
‘I have no words,’ she said.
I stayed silent. She always had words. Too many in my opinion.
I paced the hall in a great sigh. The kind of sigh that has its own tides. Collected and deposited by the moon of sadness.
She didn’t understand.
I am not sure she will ever understand.
Stories from Burg Rappottenstein Part 2
When they built Burg Rappottenstein back in the twelfth century, its massive walls were designed to keep invaders out. And having never been conquered, they’ve served their purpose well. Fortunately for the Sunday Writers’ Club, all the archers on the ramparts and guards on the gates had long since become ghosts when we arrived for our writing annual retreat in April 2023. There was nothing to keep us from four days of indulging in what we love best: writing!
So, we’re very excited to present here more stories from Burg Rappottenstein. We hope you enjoy reading the following contributions:
Graffiti from a Bygone Age by Caroline Stevenson
Coming Home to Burg Rappottenstein by Sandra Völker
Braving the Dungeon by Mary Anglberger
Stories from Burg Rappottenstein Part 1
For the 2nd year running, Sunday Writers’ Club returned to Burg Rappottenstein in Lower Austria for our 2023 writers’ retreat. SWC members escaped to the imposing twelfth century fortress for four inspiring days of writing, sharing, and some exploration of the forest all around.
We’re excited to share here a small selection of members’ creative writing from the retreat, including-
Absence by Lea Gremm
Latisha is My Name by Connie Phlipot
All Together Now by Brigid Whoriskey
We hope you enjoy reading these stories. And keep an eye out for Stories from Burg Rappotenstein Part 2 coming up next week and containing more fantastic creative writing from members at the retreat.
Seasons by Eleanor Updegraff
Do you remember the first time? I do. It was a house party at my place, the first the boys and I ever held. I hung out in the kitchen with the Irish lads – Jon had endless friends and they were funny and loud – and then at some point, in the press of bodies in that narrow space, I turned my head and there was you.
Got You! by Brigid Whoriskey
I knock gently before entering the empty board room, 30 minutes early, and select my usual seat at the back corner of the table, affording me greatest visibility of the soon to be filled chairs. I button my grey merino wool cardigan, over a white round neck top. My hands slide over my navy knee length skirt, tucking it into place as I take my seat. My hair is tidily pulled back, as always.
Easter Week is Also Passover Week by Tamara Saltman
Sunday. Sing at church All Glory Laud and Honor. Palm fronds everywhere. Stop by butcher for seder brisket.
Monday. Work. Pick up car from repair shop. Yoga class. Practice German, forget to learn Chad Gad Ya off YouTube.
Tuesday. Work. Choir Director wants to start planning summer season, avoid conflict with Session
The Last Soldier by Natasa Pap
The year was 1945. It was mid october, and the chill in the air was a clear sign that autumn had arrived. The wind was howling this night, making the window frame shake on occasion. It had been three weeks since Jonathan left the army and returned to the village where he grew up. His wife Louisa welcomed him with open arms and a smile filled with warm tears of joy. His daughter Emma didn’t even recognize him at first, probably because of his beard.
Odd One Out by Jane Dudeney
I observe them all in there, but they don’t notice me. It’s curious, after being friends all these years, how things turn out. I certainly didn’t see this coming, although now I’ve got a moment to myself to look back, there were, perhaps, some signs I could have spotted.
Quadrivium by Eithne Bradley
The indoor waterfall roared. The sound bounced back and multiplied off the glass dome above, and the shuttered shops, and the marble floor, caging it like a wild animal. Perhaps the waterfall dreamt of a savage drop over jungle falls. Perhaps it dreamt of surging in a cathedral of water that deafened tiny humans at its foot. Perhaps it wanted to form a mist that blinded and disoriented. Here it was desalinated, neutered, performing for the mild distraction of travellers.
“So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.” by Greta Lane
“So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.” That line from The Great Gatsby would come to me sometimes, back in Mosul in 2007; that one sweltering summer when death was in the air and covering the ground like the dust that would coat our cheeks and gum up the action in our rifles. It was the summer when the surge of American soldiers deployed to Baghdad sent the insurgents up to our area, like squeezing a jelly donut.
Quadrivium by Connie Phlipot
“The taxes are the most complicated thing,” that was Janina’s opening to her standard story of her household situation. She’d pause a second to look at the puzzled faces of her interlocutors before resuming her story. “Yes, you see tax assessment is based on a determination of where economic activity takes place.” Another pause to let listeners ponder that consideration. “Two of the bedrooms are in Arizona. Not much economic activity there, you’d think.” That always got a laugh. “But, in fact, during lockdown and snow storms, I did a lot of my work right there, sitting on the bed.”
Luna by Jane Dudeney
It was the last thing she’d given me, and I wasn’t ready to let it go. We didn’t know at the time, that it would be the last thing she’d ever give me. We thought there would be many more years of impromptu gifts, but life doesn’t always turn out that way.
A Conversation between the Heart and the Brain by Natasa Pap
Brain: “Why are you always so emotional?”
Heart: “What are you always so cold and calculated?”
Brain: “What do you mean? It’s my job to think, process data and find solutions for various problems. I can’t do that if my mind is clouded by emotions?
Heart: “Is that all I am to you? Some cloud or fog that is distracting your thinking process?!”
Brain: “You see what they mean? Every little thing upsets you! This is why it’s so hard to talk to you, I can never figure you out!”
The Three Stages of Cold by Jan Cutting
Wet Cold Day – plus 1 or 2 degrees – Scotland.
Shoulders hunched
Sky and street meet in mist
Rain creeps into every thread and fibre of fabric
Drains your soul
Eyes squint
Skin liquifies
Dampness drags you home
Click on the title or featured image to read on!
The Caravan of Broken Dreams by Sandra Völker
Ladies and Gentlemen!
I am the operator of the Caravan of Broken Dreams and tonight I offer you to discard all your broken dreams and unfulfilled aspirations. Why weigh yourself down with the frustration and disappointments of what you have not achieved? Why be shaped by your perceived failures and unspoken desires? Why fret about past defeats and unattainable goals. I offer you a clean slate from which to grow new and fresh dreams that are not diminished by the weight of past experiences.
Click on the title or featured imaged to read on!
31 Words to Describe January
One of the fascinating aspects of our Sunday Writing Sessions is when more than one writer chooses the same prompt from the current week’s Menu. Seeing creative people tackle the prompt in their own unique way proves just how diverse in thought and approach our SWCers can be! This exact thing happened during the January 29th session with the prompt:
“Use 31 words to describe January.”
Click on the title or featured image to read contributions from Sunday Writers’ Club members Tamara Raidt, Keith Gray, Jasmine Fassl, and Dagmar Bayer.
The Piano Tuner by Caroline Stevenson
I don’t repair doorbells as part of my day job, but my customer’s doorbell that morning could certainly have done with a little work. It was pleasingly old school, the descending two-note refrain which typically heralded a tannoy announcement made at an airport. Ding dooong. The second note, however, had crept up to be higher it ought to have been, and was sounding discordant as a result.
I am the Chicken on the Chopping Block by Sandra Völker
We’re excited to present here the lastest creative writing by Sunday Writers’ Club member Sandra Völker. Her poem is inspired by the Helmut Newton photograph “Roast Chicken and Bulgari Jewels”, which was recently on display at the Helmut Newton Legacy Exhibition at the Bank Austria Kunstforum in Vienna. Sandra was one of the talented SWC members who attended the exhibition for an extra-special creative writing session.
Click on the blog title or image of Sandra at the exhibition to read “I am the Chicken on the Chopping Block”.
The French-Belgian Border Crossing by Connie Phlipot
The Sunday Writers’ Club kicked off the 2023 new year with a special, one-off event with the Bank Austria Kunstforum in Vienna. Writers joined us for a unique creative writing experience inspired by the Helmut Newton Legacy exhibition. The specially created creative writing prompts menu (written by published author Keith Gray) focused on photographs of the iconic photographer.
We’re delighted to present here The French Belgian Border Crossing by Connie Phlipot—just one of the inspiring stories that came out of the event. We hope to post more stories here from the event very soon.
Caribbean Christmas by Emma Downey
We’re pleased to launch into the 2023 new year with a delightful Christmas story by Sunday Writers’ Club member Emma Downey. If you’ve ever longed to escape all the stress of Christmas, you’ll enjoy this story as much as we have.