Saturday, 8 December 2018


by Sandra Davies

I leave my husband’s bed. Know the boards which creak, not to make hinges squeak. Leave the room.

Cold feet on damp stones, wet sand.

To the beach where Paul awaits me. Wraps me round inside his heavy greatcoat, rough grey wool across my throat, smell of earth and smoke. 

I shiver. Mud to blood to thunder, shouts of men.

Paul murmurs a warning, “He is coming, he is coming.”

Paul is no longer there.

My husband wraps me in a blanket. Tells me, “Paul is dead. I held him as he died. And promised him I’d care for you.”

Author bio: Sandra Davies eased herself from printmaking to writing when the wardrobe got full. Current passion is directed towards a series of novels best be described as love triangles with murder. Drabbles are practised weekly at The Prediction, links to which can be found via sandra­

Spurned is part of 101 Fiction issue 21.

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