He dreamed of her in the night. When he woke, she was there with him too. In that lucid state of semi-sleeping her voice was almost with him in the room. He needed only to close his eyes to travel back to England, back to their home. He recalled her habit of running her finger
The name on the grave still looks sinister. By day I can laugh off the coincidence and at night the mask of gloom obscures familiar details, but twilight and logic are natural enemies, and I’m jumpy, all alone on the island in the lake. My faith in the plan fails, along with my nerve, and
STORGY was saddened to learn the passing of Sebastian Collier, a writer, creator and artist that frequently sent us his short stories. In tribute, we are honoured to have his words immortalised on the website and below we are proud to share some of his work among our readership. We will also be dedicating our
The first guest to arrive is Mr Baxter, accompanied by the smell of cigarette smoke and a puddle of rainwater shaken from his umbrella which gathers on the marble floor below his feet. He yanks off his coat, spraying more rainwater across the floor, and thrusts it with his umbrella towards me. Although the invitation
Open with: two men crushed to death in a campervan. Well ok, two men, potentially crushed to death in a campervan. Fate unconfirmed. And besides, it’s more like a caravan really, if we’re being pernickety. Which we are. So two men potentially crushed to death in a caravan. But perhaps we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves. Let’s back
Gil’d kill for some coffee right now. Grains of sleep linger in his lashes. That trail of gross leaves is still there. He stares. Fuck fresh air, he has just decided. Not fresh air as a thing. Not fuck photosynthesis. Not fuck that. Fuck no. But as a judgment. A kind of putdown. That greener
I. Even now, Zoë can remember all the prices in the Melbourne milk bar that her parents owned. Paddle Pops were seven cents. Sunny Boys were three. Violet Crumbles and Smith’s Crinkle Cut chips both sold for five, the same price as the bus fare to her high school. In those days, two dollars a
Grenth Enterprise Academy Mr. Jackson’s Classroom (2nd floor) Tutor Time—14:45-15:05 Tuesday: Quiet Reading -a thin girl, some would call her pale, but people don’t tend to say that about students so well-endowed in PE even if it’s true. It’s not just that is the thing. Endowed, well, in just about every scholastic or athletic endeavour
Life was good: Domestic arrangement pleasant; kids and grandkids (for the moment) unworrisome; sky bright blue, wind zero. All of which was making her tense and restless. She knew the problem: She was addicted to fiction. She had been a compulsive reader from an early age, when she’d learned that if Nancy Drew and her
Ruminating vows and resolutions, Ludo packs his rucksack. He is going to lie. Even to himself. Whether the latter is possible, and not delusional, is, he decides, a fascinating philosophical question, and in his case the answer is, or will be, ‘yes’. But until the initiation of this trip, he had seemed genetically incapable of
