The banner between the trees read: “Welcome Home, Logan!” On the table below the banner there was a spread of yellow cake, hamburger buns, chips, ketchup and mustard, a plate of grilled meats, and fizzy red punch in a plastic bowl. In sweaters and jeans, Logan, Becky, and Sharise assembled their meals. Leaves were falling
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
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
‘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.
She will present me with a thin sheaf of paper after hinting at its existence for days. She will read it over my shoulder until I tell her to stop, and while I read, she will watch my every move. Her smirk will tell me that, like all novices, she secretly thinks she’s produced a
Winter Josué took a revolver to the border with four bullets in his fist: 9mm, 10mm, 22mm, 33mm. He tried to fit each bullet into the chamber, but only one slotted in, so he dropped the rest under the yellow palo verde tree. He spun the cylinder, raised the barrel to his head and
I’m running through the cold shallows then a low dive and I’m under, opening my eyes to the milk white, green then black, working my limbs, pushing into nothing before I’m up again, often against a wind that stirs the water to frisky waves slapping my face till I have to turn back. Wading the
On the morning of the 26th Mr. Withers sits at his kitchen table spreading chocolate truffles on toast. He places them in the centre of the bread and waits for them to melt, before expertly steering the screed towards the crusts, an equal portion to every side. The knife moves innately, like a big fish
Sunday 24th September 11p.m. Dominic, or the purveyor of lies as I now think of him, left me three weeks ago. No warning signs. No argument or chance to talk things over. Just a scribbled note. That’s our goodbye. What kills me is Dominic spends a fortune on bespoke stationery, Mont Blanc pens, Japanese stamp
You may be aware that during the last few weeks our social media accounts on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram (@morestorgy) has been spamming a certain anthology we’re going to be releasing early next year. Shallow Creek will be a speculative fiction anthology with some of the field’s newest voices in the field, alongside masters of
