“What’s on the Moon tonight?” I’m so sick of that question. Every single day I get asked that same thing. As though I’m some kind of expert! I’m no more of an expert than anyone else in the office. I can search online, just like everyone else can. I don’t understand why Dan always asks
Category: Short story
The West Lighthouse is the taller of the two, a simple structure that is pleasing in its symmetry, a tower of patchwork stone. The original oil-fuelled beacon that once guided sailors safely to the pier was later replaced by electricity, but even that has long-since burned out. Now all that can be seen is the
A story for Ieva We move in right before new year. Glasgow, Scotland, as the Americans say. Top-floor flat. Cold, bare, tall ceilings. I am used to terraced houses in a way I don’t quite understand, and the tenements impress me. They are surprisingly solid, hard – like the first time you punch someone’s face.
“You ok mate? You look a bit down. Everything alright? What’s up? What’s happening? Nothing. It’s ok. I’m ok. Honest. It’s just, well, I didn’t want to put all my problems onto you. It’s not fair. You’ve your own problems to deal with. You don’t need mine too. Come on mate. Don’t be like that.
Doug liked his volunteer gig driving Barney to hospital appointments. The guy made him laugh, the way he flipped wildly from one topic to another like a human pinball machine. A fast talker for a guy dying slowly. Doug had Deb to thank for suggesting that he volunteer in the first place. He just couldn`t
From: k*****@*******.com Sent: Monday, 15 May, 20— 6.38 pm To: m*****@*****.com Subject: vase Dear M, It was such a surprise to bump into you at the fair on Saturday. To be honest, I nearly didn’t go over to your stand, but I overheard you talking to another customer about your process and your favourite glazes,
I am that kid on a grubby, dirt street in Bihar. Where rats scamper in sheets of blackness along channels of moss laden ditches. Where throngs of decrepit, wooden stalls, not more than a foot away from these nostril-filling canals, populate the air with–quite paradoxically–aromatic street food. Litti accompanied by a side dish of roasted
No, I don’t think he is alright you know, limbs lying awkward like that, left leg splayed out like he’s sleeping, his right ankle up by his buttocks, right knee pointing inward like he needs to wee. His left arm’s up and over his face, but I think he’s still breathing. It’s hard to tell,
Traditional British nursery rhyme about magpies: One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy. He was out in the back field, shooting at magpies. She heard the crack and echo from inside the house and held her breath until she saw the birds rise, black and white against the
She watched the car pull up to the side of the station, positioning itself noncommittally by the black wrought iron gate that lined the main road. She spotted it immediately. It’s light blue body distinct against the dense, suffocating rain that obscured the other nondescript vehicles; opaque slabs of colour that were sliding in and