Worthing Flash

By Sarah Starr (Inspired by and in memory of Grenfell Tower) Air It snowed the day I wove her golden braids, black ribbons twisting through her luxurious mane of flax. She held her head proudly, but sadness curtained her dark eyes. The sky, still grey from soot and ash, held the further surprise of frosted sugar as I led her prettily from her stall. I remembered the day my sister had leant over the railings above me, her hair the same gilded hue, her laughing eyes obscured from my view. She enjoyed affecting flight, arms outstretched to that same sky, then blue as cornflowers and with the promise of endless summer days. That was when bees had circled the tower in search of nectar and pollen for their hive. Seeds drifted on silent thermals with only the birds for company. She saw me way below her and ran inside to meet me. Fire But soon a dreadful, fateful day exploded. When no rain or snow came forth to quell the burning tongues that mocked and flailed against stone an...

No soul met us the night we entered Snowdrop Cottage. It was black as pitch until I lit the storm lamp, then shadows danced on the walls as the wind outside rapidly gained strength. It was late, and with my birthday the next day, I made my way to bed. The dog, not happy to stay below, chased me up the stairs to the low beamed room. I don’t remember falling asleep, but an ancient dialect jolted me awake in the early hours. Hastily I lit a candle and looked over at the dog. She was deep in slumber. I wanted to rise, to go the window and see what all the noise was about. But, pinned to the mattress by some unseen force I could only witness the sounds of people issuing orders, panicked screams and something roaring, whooshing like the sea. It was so noisy I thought the whole street must have woken. The sound of clanking metal followed, with more rushing, and the slosh of water. It must be a storm, I thought, the wind bellowing through the village causing irreparable damage only v...

In Celtic mythology, Honeybees were perceived as messengers between this world and the spirit realm and were associated with wisdom gathered from the other side. For centuries, beekeepers across Europe have kept up this ancient tradition of honeybees being emissaries through "telling the bees". This is where the beekeeper told their bees of any family events. Marriages, new births and especially deaths were marked by decorating the hive and voicing what had happened. Strangely, the swarm arrived in late summer. Jocelyn saw it forming from the lounge, a huge mass of specks swirling and writhing, suspended fifteen feet from the ground. Gently she opened the door to where Richard was sleeping. Today his greying hair seemed almost white, haloed against the pillow, translucent in the sun from the open window. She would let him sleep on; she could tell him about the bees later that afternoon. She went into the kitchen and made herself a mug of tea. After the st...

by Sarah Starr (Inspired by and in memory of Grenfell) Air It snowed the day I wove her golden braids, black ribbons twisting through her luxurious mane of flax. She held her head proudly, but sadness curtained her dark eyes. The sky, still grey from soot and ash held the further surprise of frosted sugar as I led her prettily from her home. I remembered the day my sister had leant over the railings far above me, her hair the same hue, her laughing eyes obscured from my view. She enjoyed affecting flight, arms outstretched to that same sky, then blue as cornflowers and with the promise of endless summer days. That was when bees had circled the tower in search of nectar and pollen for their hive. Seeds drifted on silent thermals with only the birds for company. She saw me way below her and ran inside to meet me. Fire But soon a dreadful, fateful day exploded. When no rain or snow came forth to quell the burning tongues that mocked and flailed against stone...

Adam stopped digging and looked up at the sky. The weatherman had got it wrong again. It was far warmer than forecast, although the predicted storm clouds were now gathering out towards the horizon. He brushed the perspiration from his forehead and removed his tattered pullover. It didn’t feel like the fifteenth year on his allotment. Each new spring bought its own excitement as if he had only just begun. He noticed a robin on his piece of dug earth. The tiny bird looked up at him expectantly. ‘ Hello young chap,’ Adam said, ‘looking for worms I’ll be bound.’ He imagined this was the same robin of the last few years but couldn’t know for sure. Still, it did have a similar white spot on its breast. Adam resumed digging out the apple root, a tree which now bore little fruit. It had been hard work chopping it down for a man already in his seventies. It was nearly lunchtime and he needed to get home to prepare a meal for Mary. Not that she understood the meaning of time now. He bu...