For fishing trips, she would tie her own flies, taking the due care which her grandfather had taught. Like him, her feathers of choice were rooster, mallard flank, and pheasant tail.
Come evenings, she would dress for dinner, meticulously attentive to the detail. And, as with the flies, lethally attractive.
Thomas Malloch began writing in retirement. Short stories, mostly. Sometimes very short. Once or twice a year he gets published which raises his sprits, perhaps more than it should.
You have to wonder what was said before she clicked. The toddler, the man, their stances non-contiguous. The first projecting suspicion, the other hostility, to the she who is absent from the scene, the she behind the camera.
The mood of a moment caught for eternity in black and blacker.
Once upon a time, Thomas Malloch thought to try his hand at writing, only to find that writing seemed mostly editing, and then that editing seemed mostly to involve taking an axe to the word count. Consequently his output and remuneration are both low. Good job he already has a pension.
On the evening of the twelfth day of Christmas, I lit a candle at our bedroom window, curtains open so that, framed by the darkness and the ice-rimed glass, the flame would seem to burn the brighter. A fitting first remembrance, my love.
Sometimes, even grief can be a gift.
Thomas Malloch is retired. Always a reader. Fancied writing. Sometimes gets published.
At the eulogy, he spoke of his daughter’s qualities; her patience; honesty; kindness. Easy claims to make, these abstractions.
But towards the end, he became more specific.
In a voice that wavered, he listed her donations; liver; pancreas; both kidneys.
“Generous to the end,” he said.
“And beyond,” say I.
Always a reader, Thomas Malloch took the opportunity of retirement to try his hand at writing and sometimes he even gets published. Examples of his work can be found in “New Writing Scotland,” “the barcelona review,” “Gutter,” “Ringwood Publishing,” “Bath Flash Fiction,” “Reflex Fiction,” “Fairfield Scribes” and, of course, “50-Word Stories.”
“So Billy… You say this Troll suddenly appears, shouting, “Who’s that trip-trapping across mah bridge?” then eats yer brither. How come Wee Billy didnae just turn and run?”
Goggle-eyed. Sweaty. Then, bleating inspiration: “There were two o’ them!”
Fairytaleshire. A policing hell. Plod hated it. Characters always changing their stories.
Thomas Malloch writes short stories mostly. Sometimes, he even gets published.
I’d reach for the dishcloth, squared in black and white, and you’d don the Marigolds. Together, we’d wash and rinse and dry the cares from the world. Till finally, the chequered flag was raised and placed back on its hook.
I miss that: the dailiness, the dalliance in our lives.
Thomas Malloch wrote this story.
The librarian hands him a slip of paper with a number on it and directs him to the far end of the reading room.
An empty shelf, save for one slim volume. ‘My Life.’
He stares at the author’s name. Picks it up. Opens.
Every page he turns is blank.
Thomas Malloch lives in the south-west of Scotland. After retirement, he thought he’d try his hand at writing and some of his work has even made it into print in Reflex Fiction, Bath Flash Fiction, Gutter, and the Barcelona Review.
I remember it well. Me and Neil and Buzz, loping along, kicking up moon dust like cowboys home, home on the range. Only we had no horses and we wore space helmets, not stetsons.
So many times I’ve watched that footage. Yet it’s always a surprise: I’m never in shot.
Thomas Malloch is a retired doctor from Scotland. Always a reader, he thought he might try his hand at writing. He completed a Masters in Creative Writing (Distinction) at theOpen University in 2018. His work has appeared in the barcelona review, Bath Flash Fiction, Reflex Fiction, and Gutter.