3 Works by peachesofkeen
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A Terror WWI AU
The backfire of a cab on Newgate Street startled him awake with a choking gasp, his howitzer-deafened ears painfully attuned even now for the next barrage. He felt rain-smoothed stone under his cracked palm, his bitten down nails not curling into blood-soaked earth but scraping against the step he sat upon, still damp from the morning, much like his thin coat, the torn lining within it, his battered shoes, and everything else. As he slowly arched his protesting spine, soot instead of trench wall splinters coated his back from the façade of St. Paul’s Cathedral.
This was not Ypres. This was London.
He had come back.
But he had never come home. -
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For the Terror Advent Calendar 2025
Featuring accompanying artwork by potato_leaderIt was George who suggested the bath the next day.
The autumn chill had crept into his bones through the drafty windows. As he dried his shaking hands from the cold water of the washstand during his morning ablutions, a faint recollection of the halcyon ritual of decadent pleasure of washing in warm water with a delicately wrapped French soap perfumed with lavender brought a quavering smile that almost felt treasonous upon his lips.
The smile lingered as he thought of Henry.
He suggested a bath for a reason he barely admitted even to himself: to see Henry smile again too. -
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Hiraeth (n); Welsh; a home sickness to a home which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was, the nostalgia, the yearning, the grieve for the lost places of your past
"We can never go back to Manderley again."
100-ish word flash vignettes.