Clare's stories have been published in: Contrary, Nerve, Vestal Review, Dark Tales, Espresso Fiction, T-Zero, Electric Spec and the horror anthology Read by Dawn from Bloody Books (see Trick or Treat? below).
Some of her comedy material used by Parsons & Naylor on BBC Radio 4.
It was very much like our conservatory, identical in almost every way, except that the plants looked
healthier and, in this conservatory, my husband had an altogether
different wife.
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“Ah,
Alyssa, isn’t it? You haven’t visited us before, have you? You must be
in excellent health!” He laughed.
“Er,
yes.” I looked away, distracted by so many unfamiliar objects. Antique
public health posters, some of which were truly disturbing, lined the
walls. 'Don’t die of ignorance.' What was that about?
“Don’t
be alarmed at this set-up. Many of my clients like the retro look.” He
settled himself beside me, pulling a hinged table closer. A cabinet swung
open, revealing rows of vials. “Ever had anything before?”
“I
nearly had a cold once. Caught it from someone else, but….”
“Restorin
did the trick, eh? The cure for everything. ‘Don’t get sick! Don’t
get old! There’s no need to catch a cold!’” He sang the old
playground rhyme. “Well, Alyssa, what can I do for you today?”
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She
climbed into the shower and stood under the gushing head of it without
moving, mesmerized by the scarlet spinning down the plughole. She closed
her eyes.
‘I’m not a witch.’ She whispered. ‘I’m not witch.’
The man had said she must be – she was dressed like one. His voice was soft, but his eyes bored into her as though he was actually touching her, and she’d wanted to run away, wanted so much, but she couldn’t move. He smelt overpowering, or was it his voice? Old and sweet.
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I
dreamed of rail crashes, the aching grind of steel, plaintive mobile
phones calling from beneath twisted carriages, swirling flakes of
upholstery tinged with red.
Then
came that crisp October morning. I was watching leaves dancing on the
tracks, waiting for them to work the powerful magic that brings trains to
a halt. Even in my warm coat I always stood a little apart from my
ghost, aware of the extra chill in the air around it. The train was
delayed, then cancelled. We were forced to chat.
“Brrrr,”
I said, making conversation.
“I
can’t feel a thing,” said the ghost. “That’s one of the good
things about being dead.”
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...If
it had any kind of motor ability it would even now be fighting the cold
sleep, rousing itself in a glove of ice and scratch, scratch, scratching
on the walls to find a way out.
Most
of all, it misses the ring. Nothing special. It was never going to rule
them all, never going to find them. But the finger had grown accustomed to
the ring and felt it’s absence – the weight of it has left a pasty
impression at its base, an indentation.
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"Transported"
(winner
Nerve writing competition 2005)
...a
train of thought set in motion. Why ‘a train’? Thought’s more like a
bus – more random than rails. Buses stop and start unexpectedly, they detour,
bully, mingle with other traffic. Once I was on a bus and the driver went
completely the wrong way; parked up somewhere. I think he was crying. You
don’t get that on a train.
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