Tales From The Ether- Take A Little Time- Browse And Enjoy



Warwick Writers


Elif Gulez


Soon after the van’s arrival, one of the neighbours, an old lady with grandmotherly looks, stopped Hasan on the pavement and said: “You know, you can’t park a commercial vehicle here. There’s a clause saying so in the title deed.”

     Hasan said he didn’t know.

     “Do you see any other vans around?” asked the nice lady.

     She added: “I’ll give you a chance to move it out, and if you don’t, I will make an official complaint.”


Tales From The Ether- Take A Little Time- Browse And Enjoy

Mobile Phone


Warwick Writers

Room for Two

Thea Etnum






The two of them had arranged to meet in the empty, white room he had rented. She had been the one to initiate everything, suggesting they get together every now and then in secret. He agreed. It seemed like the only thing to do, accepting. Besides, which of them could truly say no? It was far from being his favourite word and she’d always struggled saying it.


Tales From The Ether- Take A Little Time- Browse And Enjoy

Children Singing in a Choir


Warwick Writers


Thea Etnum






“Wicked woman,” he muttered.

     His words irked me. I never really see myself as a woman, I thought.

     “I never really see myself as a woman,” I told him.

     “Do you mind if others do?” he asked. “Besides, you’re not just wicked; you’re also—fun.”

     “Of course, wicked and fun—I’m a cliché.”

     “Exactly,” he smiled.

     “Get off me, and get out.”


Tales From The Ether- Take A Little Time- Browse And Enjoy

Police Cars


Warwick Writers


Megan Bradshaw






A barrage of splintering Spanish leaked over Officer Sachamo Soto’s cubicle and into the waiting area inside the portable trailer. In the midst of the pandemonium engulfing the cottages that day, Florentina sought out the Spanish, the language of her early convent-school girlhood in Manila, like it was a lifeline.

     She sat rigidly in a plastic chair bolted up against the wall. In front of her, a young man sporting a Sacramento police badge was frowning down at the paper-piled reception desk. He had taken her name after Officer Soto brought her in, shielding her from the TV crews decamped there. The reporters’ questions came so quickly she couldn’t have answered them even if she wanted to—but she didn’t want to.

     “Is it true that you found the sheep?”

     “How much blood was there?”


Tales From The Ether- Take A Little Time- Browse And Enjoy

Red Lobster


Warwick Writers

Life Lessons from Lobsters

Ankit Agrawal


There’s an interesting urban myth about lobsters.

     When you cook a pot of male lobsters, you have to keep a lid on the cooking pot because when males realise they’re in a pot of boiling water, they try to escape even though they know it is futile. On the contrary, when cooking female lobsters, you don’t need to put a lid on the pot. Female lobsters know there’s no point fighting a fight which is already lost. Female lobsters hold their claws and brace each other for the impending doom.

     This theory, casting males as heroic but stupid and females as practical and supportive, is, of course, factually incorrect. All lobsters have a ganglionic nervous system. They do not feel pain. Boiling or steaming them is the most humane and quickest way to kill a lobster you want to eat, assuming you are not a vegetarian.

     However, a question about life has been illustrated. Should we die fighting or surrender to the whims of time?


At Orange Petal Press, we are always working hard to publish and promote new writers.



Warwick Writers

Costanza Casati

The Orphanage


 Italy, July 1973


“Do you miss our bedroom Julia?”

     Elisabetta whispered from her bed, her light blue eyes sparkling in the shadows. The other girls in the dormitory were already asleep: Julia could feel their regular breathing, like a lullaby cradling her. Too tired to reply, she pretended to sleep and joined the others in their rhythmic breathing. She felt her friend studying her in the dark, so remained still even though she wanted to move her legs into a more comfortable position. Eventually, she heard Elisabetta’s light snoring. 

     Yes, she did miss their bedroom. Last year they had the privilege of sleeping in a semi-private room on the top floor of the orphanage’s summer house. The two of them, unlike the other girls, were guests for a month’s holiday as Elisabetta’s mother was related to the abbess, Sister Amelia.



Warwick Writers

Rosie Clemo

The First Footing

Mrs Edwards scraped a nail against the windowsill and sighed. She’d scrubbed it only weeks ago, but the mottled wood had bucked and bloomed in the heat. The tree was wilting too, a bushy, dark thing stuck in the corner, placed after she had received a letter from her sister.

We do not entirely agree with inviting a tree into one’s home. But one trusts in Queen Victoria. I enclose a print of Her Majesty’s Christmas for your instruction.

     Her sons had taken the picture into the forest and returned with this tree, with all the fanfare of a hunt. Adorned with sprigs of red pōhutukawa flowers and candlelight, it had enchanted the children, but now it wept sap and shed leaves. We are both in silent protest of this custom, Mrs Edwards thought.

     She swept a few sand flies off the sill, avoiding the eyes of Her Majesty, whose portrait hung above the fireplace. They’d decorated the hearth with samplers of her needle class, designed to help the daughters of the Missionary Station learn basic stitch. Her daughter Maria had done a fine sampler, the stitching was neat but the embellishments to the border were strange, swirling patterns that seemed to move in the corner of your eye. Mrs Edwards had never seen the like of it before, and Maria should not have either.

     She bent to the grate, cold since October and full of Paua shells from the beach, when she heard a scream. She stood up just as her second youngest charged into the room, followed by James, her second eldest.

Under the Sea


The following writers are contributors to our debut book, Tales From The Ether.

For most writers, it is really difficult to blend genre. Unobtrusive yet fully effective and moving flashbacks are a challenge. Not so for this writer. In her piece, '50-East', M Rene Bradshaw creates a compelling mix of crime, character, place, and history. The only question we have to ask is, what will she give us next?

M Rene Bradshaw    Fiction