Helen Ross

“Porphyria's Lover” by Helen Ross

trigger warning: murder, violence, gore   They say I killed her. They say I killed her, and hid the body. That I planned it for weeks - bought cleaning supplies, a plot in the graveyard that no one would notice. They say I'm a murderer, that I deserve to be hanged for what I did to that girl, an eye for an eye and a life for a life.   I might have killed her.   The MRI revealed significant brain damage. They weren't surprised - I was under the water for several minutes, lost consciousness for longer than they thought I could s...

8 likes 9 comments 9

Read story

“Cynthia” by Helen Ross

Submitted to Contest #92

Sadie was beyond tired of London. I know, I know, 'if you're tired of London, you're tired of life'; honestly, she was tired of life. The trees didn't seem so green these days, the birds seemed to sing less and less, and the things that had once made London perfect - noise and chatter and people and places and things to see - suddenly seemed overwhelming, almost impossible to cope with. The underground was crowded. Her flat was tiny. The streets were busy. Work was hard, and long, and she was tired all the time. Ever since the funeral, she h...

20 likes 10 comments 10

Read story

“Wolcott Street” by Helen Ross

Submitted to Contest #91

I can smell you, pressed up close against me like sardines in a tin. Your heartbeat is fast, ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum, like a hummingbird - and I am your wings, wrapped tight around you, keeping you safe. Somewhere, far away, I can hear the whistle of the bombs. Here, I can hear your breathing, I can feel your warmth. We will keep each other safe. The library on Wolcott Street is large and grand, a showy building which belies the deprivation of the surrounding area. I had you in the flat we still live in today, a dingy, grey building, surround...

17 likes 7 comments 7

Read story

“The library” by Helen Ross

Submitted to Contest #91

I close my eyes, and push open the doors of the library. Sunlight streams through the back windows, down the aisles and aisles of books, and hits my face. The warmth of that light is something I've never been able to recreate - always the same, always perfect. I think it's about 3pm here, and it's always sunny. The smell of old books hits me, an addictive smell, like teak oil on wood furniture, and I open my eyes again. It's bright, and the old windows distort the light, forming patterns on the floor. If I was underwater, looking up at the s...

24 likes 16 comments 16

Read story

“Pinot Grigio” by Helen Ross

Submitted to Contest #69

I don't want to meet him, Dad. Paul pulls up in his silver Corsa, snow turning to slush under the tires. The gravel is muddy and his leather boots are flecked with dirt. He rubs them on the hessian mat and slips them off in the boot room, hanging up his coat on the empty peg. It's red - a dark, bloody colour. Lottie returns to the sofa, sitting down next to me. She fits perfectly. This is what home is - everyone fits. I start to stroke her hair as Paul’s footsteps pad down the hallway towards us. Dad stands up from his chair, picking up ...

10 likes 0 comments 0

Read story

“Emily” by Helen Ross

Submitted to Contest #64

Everyone knew the Connors' house was haunted. It was common knowledge in the neighbourhood. When they moved in, it was a spectacle - finally fitting electric lights, painting the outside, fitting double-glazed glass, and installing a telephone wire. Most houses on their street didn't even have a wire yet, the Connors were almost modern. Frankly, it seemed unnatural to have a family in that old building; it had been empty for decades, a cornerstone of the neighbourhood.  There were only two in the family. A tight-knit pair, Emily was h...

15 likes 9 comments 9

Read story