[I just realised I haven’t posted a short story in almost two months – shock and horror! Apologies for that. This one was written last year around the time of the Royal Wedding (hence the title). Enjoy!]

She broke up with him on Christmas Eve, on their way to his parents’ house in Nottingham. It was quite convenient for her because they were already on the M1 so he dropped her off at her parents’ in Leicester before carrying on alone. They didn’t live together so, after the holiday period, all that had to be done was a cordial return of the few personal items they kept in each other’s house. He came over when she was out, dropped her stuff, picked his up, took his house keys which she had left on the kitchen table and threw hers in through the mail slot after he had locked up.


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An example of tone in poetry – a course exercise

It is oft down the path of the lost
that they were found.

Trees scrabbling ancient passageways
dust covering what’s fallen.

Just one tiny drip dropping
remembers dew drops on eternity.

They crave a hand hold
in the solid dark empty narrowness.

Ominous heart leapings scare
the bravest of sorrows.

But they are courageous
dawn slipping gently through the shadows.

Forever calling your name
they enter paradise for eternity.

Bliss, humanity, what is it?
They have no memory of the fallen.


Today was going to be like any other day; he was going to make sure everything remained the same. As usual he stared morosely at his reflection in the bathroom mirror for a little too long before blinking rapidly to snap himself back to reality. The front door shut behind him with the same loud bang he had still not become accustomed to. He made a mental note to ask his landlady to do something about the defective door hinges but the thought left his mind the second he noticed his bus making its way down the street towards the empty bus stop he was supposed to be at. Six months on and he had almost perfected the unnecessary mad dash to catch the double-decker metal contraption that took him to his week day destination. Another mental note to try to get up early the next day was shoved to…

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It can be deemed rude, to stare

on a train, but what is one supposed to do there?


Do you put on your iPod and become ensnared

transported to another place, far away

by music and memories to a seaside fair?

Or do you chat to a stranger

and suffer their glare

as if to say, how do you dare

disturb the tunes that I blare?


So I join in the craze to stare

at my fellow passengers fair


Legs too long for the chair

the one opposite me seems ready to swear

at anyone who would dare

step on his flares


The others pretend not to care

crumpled against each other,

carefully avoiding to stare.



© Tania Dias