Henri is at least good for catching the scent of socio-political turmoil in the air.
Category: short story
The Sea People — Euan Currie
I often fantasise about tipping the cabinet forward until the plastic drawers slide out and spill their contents in a wave of plastic. I tell myself they should be recycled or reused. But in the fantasy it all just spills out and keeps on spilling.
Something You Can Feel in Your Teeth — Hannah Stevens
Neither of them talk much in the morning. Somehow things are more difficult in the early hours. She feels more fragile, more lost, more oppressed by the narrow confines and the lack of light.
Scheherazade — Lydia Waites
He studies me for a second before facing the road again, his jaw set. My breath is caught in my throat. I clear it, arranging my thoughts. It was just an outburst, a loss of patience: I am safe.
Fiachaire — Shannen Malone
“We can’t take it all,” her brother had said, tossing memories in a bin bag like kittens for drowning.
Navigating Goodbye – Tyler Plofker
The party is winding down and it’s time to make your exit. You stand in the living room mentally preparing for the torrent of goodbyes you’re now socially obligated to initiate. It is Christmas Eve.
On Visiting My Elderly Parents After Lockdown — Mark Czanik
A sprinkling of much needed rain has fallen overnight, and some of the roses have left broken mosaics of red and yellow petals on Dad’s newly cut lawn. Ideal conditions.
Right There — Lily Blacksell
‘Your place or mine?’ he typed, adding then deleting a winky face and pressing send.
‘Neither,’ she replied very quickly, adding ‘obviously.’
Midnight Games – Madeehah Reza
It’s not that she wasn’t happy for her sister, far from it. Nadia only wished she could hold on to her for a little longer.
SHORT STORY – Annie Dobson
Compulsory heterosexuality rots the brain, has rotted my brain. I just wanted to undo, unlive it.
The Piano Man – Frances Green
That night that the piano man and I first slept together was the night we discovered the pleasure of talking aloud about murder.
Smälting Pot – Elinor Potts
Bellies lined with pyttipanna, we refill our water bottles and stride home from the city centre towards Block 5.
Porridge 