A panda appeared in our street, skewered to the railing outside my house. Let me paint the picture: there’s the road outside my house, then there’s this long strip of grass, then there’s the houses opposite. And the grass has got these railings all the way around it, for kids to kick their footballs off
Marjorie sees the young people in the town sometimes. They are maybe sixteen or so, young men mostly. Somehow they have become separated from their family though she can’t imagine how. She tries not to meet their gaze, not to look into their dark eyes. She is told to be afraid of them, told she
Once a week Kate sits in his small office, laying out stories spanning her thirty years. Loose pages of a book, confessional secrets for her pastoral counselor to untangle and make sense of, they tell of her father’s angry outbursts and stony silences, her mother’s icy glares and disapproving comments, her own struggle for self-esteem.
‘Your attitude, not your aptitude, will determine your altitude.’ – Zig Ziglar ‘They put up a poster saying we earn more than you, we’re working for the clampdown.’ – The Clash I turn down the radio in my car – talk radio – some crappy awful phone-in show providing a platform for the permanently incensed,
My father sat in a thin blue shirt with buttons undone, his breath seeping out the corner of his chapped lips in lazy coils. The windscreen had frosted over during the night, barbed spirals of ice like bacteria in a petri dish. He hadn’t bothered to scrape it off on my side and only an
‘Don’t write like a housewife. And read David Sedaris.’ This was the advice my daughter gave me as she thrust a copy of his book, Let’s Discuss Diabetes With Owls into my hands. Three years later, on the night of my 49th birthday, Bec took me to see David Sedaris at Cadogan Hall in London.
Zack’s phone vibrates. It reads, she’s my best friend. Promise you’ll tell her on the drive home… ok? He replies, yes. Once sent, the young man swipes left on his conversation to ‘Marty B’ and hits delete. The sedan’s trunk slams shut and Tiffany climbs into the passenger seat just as he manages to disconnect
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Late-September 1929 The blade struck the log with a limp swing of the old man’s ax. He didn’t split the log as was his intention. The log was rather like a road forked at an imposing tree; yeah, just like that. The ax stuck stubborn, handle staring back at him mockingly, reminding him of just
Part I “I want to help you make target,” said Galliardi. Three flies circled the meeting room table. Smith couldn’t tell if the buzzing noise came from the flies or from the projector or was still there from the flight over. He held the white china coffee cup fiercely. The logo was turned away from
