Here is a short story which I've recently discovered. It was written sometime in my mid to late teens and is clearly influenced by the chiller anthology shows of the 1970s and 1980s.
Colin lit his low tar cigarette on the third strike of the match. As the sulfur caught his nose he took a deep drag, peering through hooded eyes as an icy breeze sheared across the back of the house. He tucked an arm up beneath his armpit, sighing as he exhaled.
It was worse outside than he’d thought. Perhaps he should have slipped his pullover on. Then again, if he had, Lou would clock it and know he’d been outside; she’d want to know why. She’d cast him that sideways look, get up close, smell his breath, his hair. She’d finger his pockets, find the fags and then have the face on for the rest of the evening. He shivered. It was easier this way.
There's no black and no white...
Writer, Content Executive, Communications Officer, Public Relations, Theatre Reviewer, Reader.