Tag: Fiction

Tomorrow, the papers will finally post an obituary about her: amateur artist, full-time freelancer and weekends-only volunteer at the Art History Museum. Friend of Kim Jeong, Director of said museum. Genevieve Sutton, they would say, was featured in some local art magazines and had a few original pieces that [may be considered a notch above…

The sound of a cock crowing pierces through the thick blanket of silence. My eyes snap themselves awake, looking for a fixed point of familiarity. On the chair slightly to my left is my outfit for the day. Black sweatpants. Black t-shirt. Black hoodie. Black sneakers. My courage. Today is the day. Its enormity wears…

“HELP, PLEASE!” The chattering of Sam’s teeth made it hard for him to get the words out, but he carried on screaming, panicking and staring at the discarded Gregg’s bag that someone left hours before, when the winter sun was still smirking at them.

Nestled into a hillock, emerald green and trimmed in a giggling lace-white spring, the estate bungalow he called home, overlooked four hundred acres of a tea plantation. It belonged to one, Mister Peacock, who looked nothing like a peacock. Kelum would know.

I have always wondered what it would be like to eat my brain. Not quite in a suicidal way, nor in a scientific way – more a thing of idle fascination. I imagine it will be a rainy day, and I will be dressed in pink, craving something warm.

They managed to arrive at the cafe, walking at pace, without getting soaked. The sun had not made much of an effort that morning, as the year drifted into dilapidation. A thin blear of cloud covered the sky; a fretful, cold drizzle fell intermittently. The sea, always there in the background, was stilled to a…

When my grandmother died, I had to deal with the deep distress that comes with having something close to your heart taken from you, the distress of losing something special. I lived with this woman for six years, perhaps more, and within those years of living with her, I learned a great deal from and…

It’s 3:17 a.m. The building is mostly glass, and the cold is spread across it like when you breathe on a window. From his little booth, Musa can see the glass panes stretching up into dark floors above him, the kind of architecture that feels proud of itself.

I’ve pictured this scene a thousand times. A table by the window, people-watching in Manhattan, waiting for Sapphire. Rush hour’s a restless river of frantic wipers, headlights, and honking horns. Rain bounces off the sidewalk like bullets while people in raincoats rush for doorways. Meanwhile, I sip a latte, watching the grey daylight darken.