Author: Tessa Calvert

The plant was summer in a pot.  It wouldn't fit into the shopping bag, so I carried it home in my arms.  A sunflower.  The golden heads had started to droop, as if too heavy for their stems, but soon perked up a bit with a long cool drink.  The newest plant on the patio, but… Continue reading Yellow →

The shop near Euston was called 'Transformations'.  There were some pretty pink petticoats in the window, so I went in.  The lighting was dim, the decor dark  - all boudoir drapes, velvet cushions and curtained cubicles - so it took me a moment to realise that all the other customers were men. An assistant appeared from… Continue reading The Other Woman →

Something on the bathroom floor - small, silent and black, with a lot of legs.  It's also perfectly still, but know it's not dead, yet.  Only a common house spider, not the sort to leap on a chair and scream about  - but it should be out doing something useful like eating flies or weaving… Continue reading Vermin →

It's gone. It should be standing by the lamp-post on the corner of the street - and if I don't get it back, I face a fixed penalty for not being in proper charge of council property. In my area, we put out the rubbish the night before Collection Day.  The kind of ritual that… Continue reading The Bin →

An irresistible invitation by email - to a 'counter-terrorism course, with tea and biscuits.' Which brings volunteers at the cathedral - a 'public place of special interest' - to a draughty hall, all attention, while a Security Officer tells us that the current threat level is 'severe'.  That is, highly likely. Then he takes us… Continue reading ‘Alert, but not Alarmed’ →

A poem, for a change, and a message from me to you... Janus A frozen breath trying to hold the new year back for just one numberless moment - to pause at a single frame of the story between here and there and gain a clear and separate space - but December's been demolished overnight… Continue reading Janus →

A robin on a pillar box topped with snow, in a country lane - a typical winter scene on a card signed by June and Roger, who I've never heard of.  In an envelope addressed to a Mrs Ann Brown, who doesn't live here any more and probably never did.  The printed message is the… Continue reading The Card →