検索キーワード： 著者 "Rosalie Parker" すべてのカテゴリー

The incoming tide nudged gently at the line of seaweed and broken shells. Her eyes were on the horizon, her bare toes dug into the sand.

People like an open fire, if they can be bothered with all the work it entails - cleaning out the grate, scrunching up newspaper, laying the kindling, fetching in the fuel. All that effort is worth it to sit and watch the flames dancing, to feel the real heat warm you through.

Beth wrapped the bread and cheese back in their papers and tied the parcel into her bundle. It was proper harvest weather; the afternoon sun roasting, the sky a faultless blue.

What you have to understand, before I begin, is that I am not a gullible person. I am a scientist of a sort, an archaeologist, trained in the empirical ethos of the British higher education system.

I first came across the boy in the supermarket; he was eating an apple from the pile. I said 'You are supposed to pay for that,' and then realised what a killjoy that made me.

The 'Wetland Watch' had been widely advertised, so Jack was surprised when only four people came. He had spent the morning sweeping out the hide before going on his rounds and couldn't help but feel a small stab of disappointment at the low turn-out.

I first came across the boy in the supermarket; he was eating an apple from the pile. I said 'You are supposed to pay for that,' and then realised what a killjoy that made me.

There are times in life when something affects you deeply and alters the way you look at the world.

The wind-whipped grass rippled in the field. Spring had come early, the sunshine and showers producing a tall, healthy crop. Tomorrow, all this luscious ripeness was to be mown and gathered, stored and fed over the coming year to the captive cows in their perpetually lit sheds. It would be the first cut of the season.

A mutual acquaintance of ours suggested I should write to you. She is a volunteer librarian in your establishment whom you will know. She took special note of you because you borrow more books than any other inmate, and it occurred to her that you might appreciate a correspondent who had time to write you a proper letter.

You've been visiting for some time and I've made very little effort to communicate. I have nothing against you - you are well turned out in your skirt and twin-set, your hair in its careful bun. I cannot fault your appearance; you seem the right sort: clean, punctual, intelligent. Even your persistence is commendable.

The message is hand written on a scrap of paper stuffed in an envelope. It reads: 'Are you blind to the truth?' I study the shaky capitals, attempting to winkle out some clue about the sender, then I stow it in the filing drawer with the others. The messages are delivered when I'm out. They lie on the doormat waiting for me in their cheap manila envelopes, the flap tucked in rather than stuck down.

I'm not unique; there are hundreds like me, and others who lost limbs or were killed outright. No matter how alert you were, it could happen at any time. Suicide bombers and improvised explosive devices were almost as common as the flies that continually plagued us.

Luke found it difficult to sleep during the late summer nights. Half the city seemed to be awake and partying outside until the early hours of the morning. Tonight he was resentful that he was both kept awake and not partying him-self, although it was a fact that he could have gone out on the town if he had wanted to.

The Birdcage was one of the surprisingly large number of establishments listed in directories of the most haunted pubs of England. It acquired its name during the Napoleonic Wars, when it was a jail for captured French soldiers.

Saskia could see that the ice near the shore was several centimetres thick. Pieter had told her that the lake never froze over entirely, that there was always an expanse of water at the centre which remained liquid.

As he walked over the pebbles down to the sea, the sun was a riot of orange and red. Although it was late in the evening, seals still basked on the rocks beneath the cliff, unfazed by the clattering of his boots.

I made quite an exhibition of myself. I'm usually so shy I fade into the background, take my place at the end of the queue, stand in the corner of the room watching what other people do.

I was pretty angry when I first came to Coverdale, but I suppose that's not altogether surprising. Most of the world was angry in 1940.

The phone call had been taken by Sandy, the office clerk, who had a habit of jotting down almost everything the caller said. This was useful for Michelle, who as Planning Enforcement Officer was required to make an entry in the planning file before she went out to investigate.