Night falls heavy behind drawn yellow curtains, as the silent face watches me grieve. My father used to keep a small transistor radio in the kitchen, a Zenith from sometime in the 1960’s with brushed silver dials and buttons. As a child it was already an antique, the sound it created hollow and tinny, like
Tag: Micro Flash Fiction
Me and Shady Granger playing grownup. Me and he. Just past 12 years old. Me chugging an empty whiskey bottle and him fake-smoking a cigarette. Pretending we are like our own parents. His family came from over there. Forbidden part of town. Part of town where the poor folks live, my daddy always said, and
After departing in a blaze of mediocrity, Graham Vasey returned to St. Joseph’s Junior School only twice in his life. The first time, it was being renamed the Graham Vasey Junior School, in dedication to his Booker Prize-winning success. He had sprung from such humble origins; he thanked his schooldays, in several interviews, as a
You’ve just walked in the door, stripped off your Lycra and turned on the shower when you see it: the toe. Not an ordinary toe; not a toe attached to a foot attached to a leg attached to a body. No. This is a severed toe. Freshly severed. It’s upright and propped against the wall.
There’s something about the sound of a tent zip ripping into the pre-dawn stillness as you push your way out, stiff and bleary, cupping a yawn and blinking away the crusty bits. Rude, raw country air rushes in for a hug and now you’re awake, drinking in the sight of lush, dewy grass descending gracefully
Elinor’s daughter Geni was in the other room playing pretend. She was pretending to be a bartender with a cardboard box standing in for the bar. Elinor didn’t know where she’d gotten the idea, and she thought that maybe she ought to go in and distract her or forbid her to play bartender or at
Headers and Volleys needs three people. One for goal, two to pass the ball back and forth, before flicking it up to spin and shoot. Score a goal? Knock one point off the keeper. Kick it wide? Get between goal posts. Who made the rules? You don’t know, but you’ve followed them since primary school
You show me the mouldy, rotting body of yet another Siamese Fighting Fish so we stop drinking and head off. In the pet shop we stop to talk to the yellow and blue macaw which answers to the name Pauline Conway. ‘What a disgrace. It’s too big for that cage. We’d do a better job,’
He came into the room and he had no idea that he wouldn’t be leaving, at least, not the same way in which he had entered. It wasn’t that kind of room. The kind a person can just up and decide to retreat back the way they came. She was already there. Sitting. Believing. That’s
The blubber-oil lamp flickers against a wall of ice and snow. Illuminated figures loom large like shadow puppets; huge and misshapen. Their dance, dark and muted, whispering from the shadowlands. It reeks like the campfires of my youth, but here the smoke is heavily infused with brine and grease. They begin quietly and without fanfare.