Posted in Original Fiction on Apr 20th, 2009 No Comments »
She sat at his table, a mug of milk in the curve of her palm. The milk and the warm bread Hestia had set on the table a moment ago, her black hair wrapped in a scarf, her dark eyes as warm as the bread. Laura had acknowledged it with a nod, because she wasn’t [...]
Posted in Original Fiction on Feb 27th, 2007 No Comments »
“Anna Maria, you’re home now. Smile for me, sweetie.”
It’s hard to smile. She’s lonely. This bright multicoloured house, these happy people, are so different from the green place she has lived the last three years. Her mother tickles her and spreads a new dress out on the bed, one with silver drops along the collar [...]
Posted in Original Fiction on Jan 18th, 2007 No Comments »
“Catherine!” Nat called, and his wife pretended not to hear. “Cai!” and she turned, laughing, shining, leaning over the railing to see his face. It was a thin face, perhaps a little misleading; hers was round and smiling, cheeks that curved beautifully, eyes that sparkled darkly from the soft pink of her skin. He never looked at her but he caught his breath.
Posted in Original Fiction on Jan 9th, 2007 No Comments »
Dear Annie,
I’m scared. I bet you think that’s dumb. Well, it is dumb. It’s really loud here. I hate it. I hate going outside with everybody. I want to come home. I washed my hands eight times to-day, and the shrink watched me every time. I want to go home. He thinks it’s because I [...]
Posted in Original Fiction on Jun 15th, 2006 No Comments »
England wasn’t what Alex had hoped. For one thing, it was too bright. For another thing, it didn’t rain enough. Everyone always said the English weather was the wettest, nastiest in the world, but to tell the truth it only rained five days a week.
Alex liked the rain more than that.
Posted in Original Fiction on Jan 22nd, 2006 No Comments »
The boy they are burying is not his son.
He begins his story in this way, because he is afraid they will think so. He is the picture of a grieving father; the wind blows the hem of his black greatcoat through the mud, and the leaves rustle like background music for a scene in a [...]
Posted in Original Fiction on May 19th, 2005 No Comments »
Gregor never understood why James cried.
“It is a thing of the woman, this!” he said, mournfully, as James sat on the side of the bed in white underwear — white undershirt with holes in it, white boxers — put his head in his hands, and cried. Gregor pleaded. Gregor begged. He hated to see James [...]
Posted in Original Fiction on Apr 19th, 2005 No Comments »
Zayka is a girl with eyes that stare too much, that are black and curious and look at everything. Zayka is a girl with ears that hear too much. Zayka is a girl with hands that touch too much, that like to reach out and feel things and brush them and stroke them and hold them. Zayka is a girl with a little tongue that likes to taste. I can taste things in the air, says Zayka, when she talks.
Posted in Original Fiction on Mar 10th, 2005 No Comments »
The old man was in love.
It had been many, many long years since he had been in love. The very first time was on a trolley, in a seaside town, when he wore a plain brown suit that hung around him limply because he was an ill-paid errand-boy to the men in offices all around [...]