Seven Deadly Swans – (day 7)

Seven Deadly Swans


 Cecilia Dominic

I am the puppet master.


“J.B., you in here?”


I am the mastermind.

“Hey, J.B.?” 

I do not like being interrupted.

“J.B.?  Wake up!  Where do you want the swans?”

J.B., his eyes forced open by the question, lost the movement algorithms he’d imagined and bit his tongue – literally – so he wouldn’t snap at his new “assistant” Tally.  She’d not figured out yet that when he was in his creative mode, he was not to be disturbed, something she should understand as an artist.  But shoulds didn’t apply to Tally, whom he couldn’t even fire because she was his boss’ niece.  Like, she should shave her armpits so he didn’t imagine a “mew!” coming from them every time she lifted her arms and the tank tops she shouldn’t wear revealed the balls of fuzz hiding under there.

He squinted against the light she’d flicked on and saw she’ (Read More)

Swan’s Act – (day 7)

Swan’s Act


A.M. Harte

 The swans are dying, and they are singing. Beautiful songs, with notes that ripple across the water and leave London silent in their wake. The sky is grey and cloudless, the wind caresses the docked boats with damp fingertips.

On the bank of the Thames is a young couple in their mid-twenties, him a blond, rugged, Yorkshire lad, her dark-featured and city-slick, delicate beside him. She’s cold, he isn’t, and they huddle together listening to the swansong.

The next eight minutes change everything.

The woman’s heels click-clack on the cobblestones as she walks towards the edge of the water, lured forward by the singing, leaning against her man for support. All that separates the couple from the river is a waist-high metal fence and a steep drop. They could easily jump over that fence but they won’t: the water is contaminated. (Read More)