‘I must compliment you on your choice of venue,’ said journalist Tony Walker. He sipped his turmeric latte and spun a ballpoint pen around his thumb with practised ease. ‘Thank you, Tony. I’m not a fan of power plays in interviews. I thought this might be a more neutral spot.’ Senator Flim lounged in her chair, which was several inches taller than his own. Twelve private security operatives paced behind…
‘Bedside Manner’ was originally penned for a 100-word microfiction competition. Little Anne woke up screaming. Her forehead glistened as she wrapped her thin arms around herself and shivered. ‘Nightmares again?’ I asked softly. We were used to the routine by now: Anne would awake screaming and I would come and sit on the corner of the bed. Downstairs, her mother and father hurled abuse. A plate smashed, followed by loud…
Tomato Soup is an imaginative response based on the writing style of J. D. Salinger (author of The Catcher in the Rye). The storyline is adapted from the poem Gooseberry Sorbet by Simon Armitage. Well, if you really must know the truth, it was probably around this time last year that I started setting the table with an extra bowl, of tomato soup. It’s a helluva food to serve. Real…
I stopped for petrol at a Shell service station that was nestled beneath the highway overpass. It was midnight, and the station was only illuminated by the distant orange lights of overhead street lamps, and the occasional white-hot flash of a car rudely rounding the bend with its high-beams on. I’d been listening to Cream on the radio as they crooned about someone named Ulysses. The album had gone platinum…
Emberfall was shortlisted for the Audrey Daybrook Short Story Prize (Round 3, 2019). I kick the side of my griffin-mount, and he responds with a gentle, spiralled descent to the autumnal forest below. My fingers, clutching desperately to his neck-feathers, feel icy in the roaring wind. We corkscrew at the last second before crashing into the loam forest floor, and I hit the ground running. Ahead of me, the goblin…
Nobunaga was furious when he saw the sky castle, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. He stood in the lobby, mouth agape, eyebrows knitting together as he glanced quickly around the transport lounge. “What is this? What have you done?” He asked, examining the dark-stained wooden interior of the lounge. Two suits of samurai armour were placed either side of the exit, and his gaze lingered on…
You have trapped me. Yes, you. You did this. Without knowing. You’ve done it a hundred times, to a hundred of me. You’ve been off living your life, while I have been awake: unable to move, or breathe, or sleep. So, how have you been? Do you remember how it happened? What you did? You were there with that girl you know. I can’t remember her name, but I do…
