The parrot squawks, “Smell like crrrap, farrrt, farrrt, farrrt.” “You’re silly,” Aunt Elvira tells me. “He’s a sweet bird and would never say anything inappropriate.” Aunt Elvira is my favorite human but she forgets a lot, and her hearing is worse every day. Sometimes she calls me Vlado. That was her husband, who used to
In the introduction to The BBC National Short Story Award 2019 broadcaster and chair of judges Nikki Bedi writes… ‘short stories are not a warm up for the ‘real thing’ as some would have us believe. They are gifts of concision, they demand one’s total attention’. As an ardent fan of short fiction – more
This story must be told, that of a young girl, not taken but ripped from her mother’s arms. A mother following instinct to protect her daughter, to find safety, a place without fear of death. This mother, witness to murder, inside a spring day while the birds sang of new hungry babies, opening wide beaks
There is an old piano with chipped keys and fine lines on display inside Whitechapel station. There is an official bucket tethered with a silver chain and a not-unworthy cause interleaved between two sheets of plastic. For some, a chance to showcase. Performances erupt intermittently, often during the calmer moments between rush hours. Songs are
A post by the account PDX alerts: Report of a nude female masturbating on the Cesar Chavez Blvd I-5 overpass, incident causing slowed traffic in Northbound lanes. Eight minutes later, next post in the same thread: Police responding to multiple calls. Eleven minutes later, next post: Police in foot chase with suspect. Thirty-seven minutes later,
Pity on passing faces, like I’m dumb for doing what smart guys avoid. Females at first smile on seeing a spiffy young male standing tall alongside the ramp up to a west-bound highway. Short hair parted left and combed flat with white sidewalls. Pale Oxford shirt tucked in, belted dark chinos, thin black necktie, shined
This obscure short story stays with the reader long after the final word, the rolling images of the sweeping countryside and the haunting unknown leaving lasting impressions from an undoubtedly skilled writer. However much I tried to erase those feelings of nervousness and remove myself from the claustrophobic yet expansive setting, I failed. Moore had
Hello. You must be…? Yes, guilty, I’m Mrs McCready. But you can call me Eleanor. Did you find the house easily? Oh, you saw the gates? Yes, they are rather large. It might look like overkill but I live here alone and I like to feel safe. Come on through! I thought we’d do the
I first discovered the tremendous voice that is Nick Holdstock when I reviewed Unthology 11 (review here) and his story ‘Half‘ – which came kicking and screaming into my world. So, I was delighted to hear that he had a collection coming out from Unthank and was overjoyed when it arrived in the post for
Marie was stretched out on the sofa, sipping a glass of wine, flicking through the television channels. We’d already watched two shows featuring evil people, smart crime solvers, and autopsies, not speaking much while we watched, dozing off from time to time, but not at the same time. Marie rested the remote on her thigh.
