Short Story Sunday: Latchberry Farm [Part Six]

Dr Patterson washed his forearms in the bowl of water. It was a kind of meditation to see the water swirl and then colour as the soap blended in. He dabbed a towel down to the elbow of his left arm and then switched to the right. The prints of human anatomy along the wall gaped at his movements, giving their wide-eyed approval. 

Short Story Sunday: Greed and Foreigners

My name is John Akinola and I work as a car guard. You may have seen me earlier, but you chose not to look. Most people don’t make eye contact when they drop a fistful of coins into my palm. I don’t blame them, and I am grateful my mother is not here to witness this. I know you are busy with your shopping and your errands, but I want you to hear my story.

Short Story Sunday: Mimicry

I like to observe her. When she catches me staring, I disarm her with my smile. I met her when I was fourteen, and she rescued me from Tommy Lincoln’s fist. Catherine was twice my age and worked behind the counter in her father’s shop.

Wednesday Write-Up: Dawn (for Mike)

My memory of that day always starts the same way. I usually see it in the bottom of my wine glass, when Luc has left to order more drinks at the bar. In the haze of smoke and the thrum of the music, I go back in time.

Short Story Sunday: Human for a Day

You will meet me eventually. Sometimes we brush against each other when you take a corner on De Waal Drive in your car after a night of wine. Other times I cross your path as a postman, a shop assistant or a pensioner at a traffic light.