The Butterfly Girl


MAGGIE: 6yo ghost: frilly pink & white dress, open top black shoes with white socks. Blonde piggy tails platted and held with bright coloured ribbons. MARCUS’S daughter.

MARCUS: 40 something medium build collar length bed hair, 5 o’clock shadow, chino’s, polo shirt, rykers sneakers. Rolly hanging out the edge of his mouth. Associate Lecturer Science, divorced. MAGGIE’S Father. Rather Introverted.

SUSANNA: Late 30s, self-employed, stylish. Business dress. MAGGIE’S Mother. Quite extroverted.


Maggie’s bedroom: federation style timber room painted pastel lemon with large sash windows (white architrave), lace curtains, polished timber floor (light). A dbl base single bed adorned with a thick white doona with a gumtree print pattern across one end is made neatly. Two big pillows rest against a white bed head with a large fluffy stuffed teddy bear in the middle. A white dressing table with a mirror hosts a ballerina music box, a brush and assorted clips – all neatly in their place. Glow in the dark butterfly stickers are stuck around the edges of the mirror. There is a similar desk, with shelves containing photos, fluffy toys, trinkets, pencils, paper. A hanging mobile with brightly decorated butterflies hangs above the bed. A large rug with cartoon butterflies lies in the middle of the room. A butterfly theme is evident in the room with decals on the walls, trinkets on the window sills and shelves. A small chest of drawers next to the bed has a butterfly lampshade on its light. A wind chime with small butterflies hangs in one corner of the window.


SUSANNA is selling the house after a bitter divorce where we find MARCUS who has come to collect some of his deceased daughter’s belongings. MAGGIE’S ghost is in the room.

Continue reading The Butterfly Girl

The Speculum

It wasn’t in the mirror this morning. It had been cleaned out. The sponges and spray bottles were still on the sink, that’s what was odd. After the nightclubs had closed and all the drunks had meandered into the deadly blackness the cleaners came in to mop up.

A few regulars went missing some time ago. If it was just one drunken sod the tales probably would have stopped. Yet next week Sam Bates vanished. Then the rum loitered in the glasses and lips smacked about monsters.

Returning from the ladies I jumped at Sam’s face screaming in the mirror.

© C. Piltz 2014