Mary McClarey

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Apr, 2021

Stories (4)

4 Stories

76 karma pts

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“Lifelines cut by winter.” by Mary McClarey

Submitted to Contest #285

I remember the endless, grubby freezing winter of ‘63. The drifts were knee-deep, and we walked to school on the tops of the hedges. Our inadequate lunch packs, squashed between books and incomplete homework, festered at the bottom of our satchels. We snuggled our mittened fingers deep into coat sleeves, and our toes, chilblain numb, swaddled and grew damp in home-knit socks and unsuitably porous school shoes. We were hoping our mother would soon come home. Crunch crunch on the crusty snow, footprints breaking the new frost each mornin...

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“Dinner in the Looking Glass.” by Mary McClarey

Submitted to Contest #162

I’m not too impressed when he snaps at the waiter, asking for our order and telling no one in particular, but maybe me, that it has been a long day. He never asked what I wanted, just told the poor man one mussels, one prawn cocktail, two Dover soles and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. Looking right and left without moving my head I see all these gentle diners, all gently conversing, or gently enjoying overhearing other’s conversing. Well dressed, immaculately dressed, but none of them in unseasonably light chiffon. Not like me. My wee dress lo...

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“Dreambirds” by Mary McClarey

Submitted to Contest #93

When he asked her to glam up for the dinner party, her heart sank. She knew what that meant and what she would have to do. She wasn’t anybody special, no one would be interested in her, but that’s the way he liked it to be. Arriving late, as planned, she watched him swoosh into the room, admiring the way he delivered a sense of elegance through his posture and well-held head. His shiny hair, each one lying precisely and smoothly alongside the other, had no flicker of dandruff besmirching either his parting or the collar of his dinner jacket...

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“The Museum of Lost Things” by Mary McClarey

Submitted to Contest #92

I wander around the dark corners of my life, grieving, trying to retrace my steps, looking but not searching. I know I will never see them again. After so many years they are still tiny perforations in my paper-thin soul, which would, I believe, be complete if only they had not been lost. I catalogue them in my mind, wincing each time I recall the loss, a Museum of Lost Things, darkness extinguishing flickering lights like an early cinematographic film. Each one briefly illuminated by its value, dimmed by the grief of its absence. Exhibit A...

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