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    Flights of Fancy
    Flights of Fancy
    Flights of Fancy
    Ebook108 pages1 hour

    Flights of Fancy

    By Sally Cronin

    ()

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    About this ebook

    As a child I was fascinated by fairy tales and ghost stories. Ghosts never frightened me and I always thought that they were simply messengers from another world. I have sensed rather than seen spirits myself, but I know that there are places that I have visited that seemed beautiful to look at but felt very cold and unwelcoming, as if there was a darker presence inhabiting the house. I have also found at times that something or someone has pulled me back from taking an action that might well have been harmful to me. Some believe in guardian angels and others that we have an ingrained sixth sense or survival instinct that protects us. All I know is that I am prepared to be open to the possibilities.
    In this collection of my short stories and a novella you will find my perception of heaven, ghosts as well as romance, revenge and a little murderous intent. I have also given a voice to some of the animals that I have had the privilege to meet in my life to date and I believe that if they could speak for themselves this world would be a better place!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMoyhill Publishing
    Release dateAug 25, 2014
    ISBN9781905597604
    Flights of Fancy

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      Book preview

      Flights of Fancy - Sally Cronin

      Title Page

      Flights of Fancy

      Sally Cronin

      Moyhill Publishing

      Copyright page

      © Copyright 2014 Sally Cronin.

      This is a copyrighted work and the copyright holder reserves all rights in and to the work. The Moral right of the author has been asserted.

      Use of this work is subject to these terms: No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means except for the right to store and retrieve one copy of the work. You may not decompile, disassemble, reverse engineer, reproduce, modify, create derivative works based upon, transmit, distribute, disseminate, sell, publish or sub-license the work or any part of it without the express, prior, written permission of the publisher. You may use the work for your own noncommercial and personal use but any other use of the work is strictly prohibited. Your right to use the work may be terminated if you fail to comply with these terms.

      Smashwords Edition 2014

      ISBN 9781905597604

      Printing History

      MOBI 2014 ISBN 9781905597598

      EPUB 2014 ISBN 9781905597604

      E-book production by Moyhill Publishing.

      Suite 471, 6 Slington House,

      Rankine Rd., Basingstoke, RG24 8PH, UK.

      Dedication

      Dedication

      My grandfather Herbert Francis James Walsh

      (1897 – November 2nd 1918)

      and my Grandmother Georgina.

      Inspiration for the story ‘Curtains’

      Acknowledgements

      Acknowledgements

      David Cronin as always

      for turning my words into a book to be proud of.

      Contents

      Title Page

      Copyright page

      Dedication

      Acknowledgements

      GETTING AWAY WITH MURDER

      THE OTHER SIDE OF HEAVEN

      CURTAINS

      MAÑANA, MAÑANA

      TRUST

      ALBERT – THE PERFECT CANDIDATE

      FATHER CHRISTMAS

      THE PSYCHIC PARROT

      FLIGHTS OF FANCY

      HENRY’S STORY

      THE SEWING CIRCLE

      About the Book

      About the Author

      Also by Sally Georgina Cronin

      Size Matters

      Just Food For Health

      Forget the Viagra … Pass Me a Carrot!

      Media Training: The Manual

      Just an Odd Job Girl

      Sam, A Shaggy Dog Story

      GETTING AWAY WITH MURDER

      On my forty-third birthday, I murdered a woman. She made me do it. For over fifteen years, she had made my very life, a misery and a mockery. This woman had bullied and forced me into behaviour that had made me ashamed and fearful for my life and sanity. She jeopardized my health and destroyed my self-esteem.

      As I stand before you, I freely admit to this killing. I realise that this is my chance to have my say, to explain and to acknowledge this deed of mine. Firstly, let me say that, given the chance, I would kill her all over again. I can show you no remorse or guilt. I cannot stand before you with head bowed and accept your condemnation. It was self-defence in every sense of the word.

      This woman came into my life one dreary, wet Irish day, when the clouds met the horizon in a solid sheet of grey. I usually came to the beach when I felt a bit down, sometimes the water washed away my blues, but today the chill wind, simply intensified my mood. I didn’t even notice her approaching me. One minute I was alone, and the next she was beside me.

      You look a little sad dear, is there anything I can do to help?

      I looked at her and saw a homely, motherly type of woman, with a gentle, slightly worried look on her face.

      I’m fine, thank you. I replied, trying to smile warmly, as if I did not have a care in the world.

      How come then, ten minutes later, I find myself at a table, at the almost deserted seaside café, pouring my heart out to this complete stranger? My husband loved me whatever weight I was but I knew that others were not so forgiving. I dragged up baggage from my past and held onto it defiant and determined not to let go of the weight of it. Self-pity flowed like hot lava from my mouth and she sat quietly, listening intently and nodding her head from time to time.

      When I think back, she said very little. She didn’t even tell me her name at that time; I used her like an absorbent sponge, soaking up my misery. All she did was push the plate of fresh cream cakes towards me urging me to take another, that I would feel better if I did.

      We met time and time again, sometimes in cafes or restaurants or as we got to know each other in my own home. I kept her a secret from everyone. After all she was my friend and nobody else’s. She understood me and at first I welcomed the comfort she brought me in the form of chocolate and cakes, sweet things that took away the bitterness that was beginning to grow inside about myself.

      Soon I could add being fat to my list of woes. I tried several times to tell her that I didn’t want to eat her sugary offerings, but my will was weak and I always succumbed as she sat there smiling benignly at me. One day I realised that my clothes no longer fitted. My husband began hinting gently that perhaps for my health’s sake I should lose some weight and why didn’t I join a slimming club or perhaps take up more exercise. I took up my defensive position and turned instead to my special friend. I would moan to her and shout about how unfair it all was, and it was my body anyway. She would pat my hand, comfort me, and make me feel safe and loved. She loved me however fat I was getting. She was my friend the one who never criticised me or made me feel an outcast.

      Over the next fifteen years, she became an even better friend, although there were times when I rejected her and asked not to come around anymore. That I needed to try and lose some weight, make new friends and stand on my own two feet. It would only last for a few weeks. Something would upset me. There would be an emotional crisis, an imagined slight, or a comment from someone about losing weight. I would weaken and call her to come around; knowing that she never came empty-handed.

      My secret relationship with her went from strength to strength. She was there whenever I needed her. Late in the night when the urge for warmth and sweet comfort would overcome me and I would call for her to come around and bring her treats. I lied to my husband and family and pretended that I was eating only the best of foods, and that I never touched anything fattening like the chocolate or cream cakes that I now shared with this woman daily. I started buying my own supplies and would tell outrageous lies to the disbelieving, skinny women behind the pastry counters.

      Oh, the family is coming over this afternoon for tea, will you ever let me have six of those big chocolate éclairs. Or wonderful nights of nights, Halloween, the bliss of a legitimate excuse to buy ten pounds of chocolate bars that were never destined to see the inside of a child.

      When I was forty-three, after an enduring friendship throughout all those years, our relationship was put to the test. I became ill, tired and listless with nosebleeds and pains in my chest. I went to the doctor who put me through the shame of standing on that infernal machine that always seemed to multiply my weight by three. I stood down, expecting the usual lecture, but was met with a resigned and serious look from my family physician. An hour later, I was standing on

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