Category: short fiction
l’homme qui s’est parlé
Auguste Lefèbre was exactly middle aged. That is to say, he was thirty eight and would die aged seventy-six on 1st June 1926, his birthday, in fact. And there, at the end of Rue de Nélaton rose (or fell) ‘La Tour de Babel’. To Monsieur Lefèbre it was a monstrous scaffold. What Guillotine had started,…
ghost story
When Gerald woke from the edge of a dream, he had a vague sense that someone was lying beside him. He felt calm at this invasion, not numb or horrified or outraged. Perhaps, he felt thoughtful. Yes, in fact he even found himself reflecting on the way his mind was occupied with reasons and possibilities:…
departures
There was a piano near our departure gate. I sat outside Starbucks, while we waited for our flight and to people watch. Sal had gone to queue. While I was waiting, three teenagers approached the piano for a laugh. Two were egging on a third to sit down and bang the keys. I was curious…
owl and pussy
There were two things in Graham’s life: his guitar playing and his girlfriend’s plot. Maybe they were connected somehow. Graham was an unusually talented guitar player. The fingers of his right hand performed their work on the strings as if they had a life of their own. The fingers of his left hand obediently…
krzysztof nietzsche-przybysz
Krzysztof Nietzsche-Przybysz sank tentatively into a chair that was a little low. Across the table sat Mr. Davis. Krysztof’s fairly new acquaintance glanced over his menu, before putting it down. This evening, after work, Krzysztoff Nietzsche-Prybysz had come with an ardent desire to confide in Mr. Davis something that he felt was not just necessary…
the garden
Shortly after the funeral, Paul’s eldest sister, Mary, rang to say they were going down to the house, would he come? She spoke vaguely about some items in the will. Though Mary was distant and he wasn’t really listening, he answered vaguely that he would. Their mother’s house was in Petersfield. She had moved there…
the worst thing
The worst thing in life is boredom. I had an English teacher who forbade the class from ever describing anything as being ‘boring’. The other terms forbidden by Mr Carlos were: ‘nice’ and ‘can’t’. He used the latter term a great deal, especially when telling us we couldn’t use the word ‘boring’ and even though,…
broken glass
On a Wednesday afternoon in June 1967, my mother fell asleep on a sun lounger parked under the bone dry of a Californian cobalt heaven that domed over our back yard, vaulted over our rented house on Pasea Laredo, soared creaselessly over the neighbourhood of La Jolla, bowed over the vast Pacific, arched to Earth…
mr and mrs breksite
Nigel twitched the nets behind the green chintz curtains. He peered down into the road. The suburban sporadic swoosh of cars was barely audible through the double glazing. “What is it? Come to bed Nigel. Turn the main light off, as you’re up.” “That van’s parked there again.” He lingered to peer a little more,…
the geisha of pompeii
I saw Moldir Shirinova again in the Kempinksi Palace Hotel, Abu Dhabi. She was sitting in the lobby fiddling with her phone oblivious as I walked across. Only when I stood over her did she glance up into the golden world and clock me. “Oh. Mr. Nicholas. I’m sorry.” She rose and I stepped back…