Tag: Short Story

A rocking in the wind – rattled windows and a tremor. From night came a turbulence so maddening that he closed his eyes and covered his ears. Maybe, if he shouted, the deafening sounds – its frightening clash would subside. So. He shouted, sitting on the kitchen floor with his legs crossed. The wood of…

She hesitates before she places the phone to her ear. Always one to text or email but rarely one to call. He knew this well but rings anyway. She squeezes her eyes shut, and flecks of colour erupt across the backs of her eyelids.

I’ve been on this park bench since the gates opened, trying to work out if the woman opposite is an old mother or a glamorous gran. Then the baby she’s holding cries, and she unbuttons her blouse to suckle it. I bow my head so she doesn’t think I’m staring. Her drinks can falls, which…

As I crawl out of my hiding place after the storm has passed, I realise I am alone. I shout, though my lips are chapped and stinging, and struggle to form the words as the harsh, cold air floods my throat. The winds have been intolerable the last few days, with drifts up to a…

The cow lows in the field behind my house as the sun sets, purple and orange and pink against the wheat fields on the street that’s still called Lenin. When the night sky goes from blue to black and the stars shine above me in a panorama unbelievable, the crickets chirp, and the moths and…

The screaming starts even though we’re still five minutes away. My daughter recognises the landscape: the goldenrods that crowd the guardrails, the white pines gazing over the highway, and the exit leading to the lavender farm. I imagine myself leaning over and jerking the steering wheel out of Greg’s grasp, heaving us out of traffic…

Baravin Erdelan looked across at the American, sitting stiffly in the air-conditioned, luxury Hummer. They were speeding through the streets of Erbil in the searing heat of the midday sun. Most of the cars on the streets were white, but this one was matt black. Baravin saw his face reflected in the lenses of the…

“Miss, there’s something I’d like to show you.”  Miss Ogbemudia turned – a sharp movement of her upper body that cut her tailored shirt into creases. The winter sun was sinking, filling the room with its last light and with her face towards the windows, she glowed like an icon. Lola took in the image…

Ron picked me up from school and asked what’s new, I told him I have to write this journal and he laughed. “Mr Big Shot,” he said, so I called him an idiot. “Your idiot, though,” he said, which was sweet.

I’ve never doubted that Chester is the love of my life. And yes, I hate phrases like that: love of your life, other half, soulmate. Especially the second two. What happens when your soulmate dies or cheats on you? Does having another half mean you’re half of a person without them?