I am black. Oh rota, the blank person who walks beside me, what are you saying? That you want candy? We walk into a store, and it’s full of black people, how black they are and how perfect, but beside me is a blank person and he (or she) is nothing at all. Just…
You won’t believe me, but I’m not real. Not a real human being. I’m a robot. An automaton. Trent Lewin is an anagram (try it, and you will see), and that name was always a hint that something was different about who I am – that in fact, I am no one. I never was.…
Jamie is a midget – not really a midget, but close. This hasn’t hampered her life in the slightest, but she’s always aware of where she stands relative to everything around her: she’s constantly in a state of comparative analysis, assessing objects as they relate to her stature. Some are three-times-Jamie; others are half-Jamie…
This is pretty neat, a short-list for an international writing competition: http://www.commonwealthwriters.org/2016-commonwealth-short-story-prize-shortlist/ 4000 entries from 47 countries, and 26 stories on the shortlist (including mine). Kind of blown away, to be honest.
Anne wasn’t hit by a bus. She was standing still, staring at a painting she didn’t give a shit about, when her eyes glazed and she dropped her purse. It took Don five minutes to realize that something was wrong, to remember that Anne didn’t care about paintings or museums. Anne only really cared…
It was a strange light coming from the closet. All she could do was pull back the covers and slip out of bed. Marla stepped on a square thing. Her books lay strewn on the floor. She kicked them aside, and for a moment thought herself very brave. She reached the closet…
‘Hi Amy. I hope this finds you well. I haven’t seen you in twelve years. Do you still have my underwear? Those white briefs? I think that you do. I wonder if you wear them. Can picture you next to the window, spending all your life thinking about me. Twelve years that are all about…
