Short Story: The Tenant

TV satellites in Hillbrow by Waldo Swiegers (www.waldoswiegers.com)

"Tell me, Jonno, did you ever get to the bottom of that tenant story?"

"Jussis, bru. I would rather forget, hey."

"Triss, pour him another dop."

Kevin stroked his beard. "Listen, okes, the thing is this, hey. Jonno ignored all the red herrings..."

Short Story Sunday: Stoking the Fire

"But, how do you know? How can you tell?" Rita waved her hands as she spoke.

Delia smiled. "A person's face says a lot about them."

"Then I had better start buying more expensive moisturiser."

Short Story Sunday: Falling

Years later, when Anna recalled the blast of air from the train pushing Klaus closer to her body as they kissed on the platform at Markisches Museum, she would smile. In that moment she'd thought there was a rekindling of something between them; that, like Vesuvius, something was about to erupt after years of being dormant. 

Short Story Sunday: The Mighty Fall

Mimi Godsell could do her job in her sleep. Not because it wasn't challenging; on the contrary. Trying to lead a tour group was like herding cats. No. It was because she was so good at what she did. She knew the village history backwards -- and that was just the bits she didn't embellish to get extra tips from the double-wide men with the sunburnt wives and sticky offspring. The way to grab people's attention, and distract them from their social media accounts, was to lure them into a scandal of epic proportions.

Short Story Sunday: Ghost Hunting

Josey bounced her leg on the floor. The speaker had promised to cut a long story short, but that was an hour ago and he had not yet reached the crescendo of his address.

"This is insufferable." Aurora hid her face behind the programme.

"Being eaten alive by a shark is insufferable. This is just boring."

Short Story Sunday: Things We Lost

I check my phone again. There's a part of me that wishes I wasn't so hell-bent on being early for appointments, coffee dates and work. I know I am missing out on that frisson of excitement that comes from just beating the clock with seconds to spare. I study the menu again. I already know what I want; I come here often and order the same thing every time. I know what you're thinking: that there's a certain neatness and predictability to my life. Of course you're right. But you'll forgive me for being prepared, for wanting to anticipate what every day brings as a way to try and manage the fact that my life is something of a tornado and I am hanging onto passing debris to survive.

Short Story Sunday: The Man from Verdun

Louis crumpled the paper. The ink was smudged from the number of times he checked the address. He memorised the block letters from the moment he received the note, but found checking the scrap reassuring. By his calculations, it would take him fifteen minutes to walk to the depot. He had to time it perfectly: too early would make him seem eager; too late, and they would think he was disrespectful.

There's Someone at the Door

Have you noticed how things are louder when you sleep? How the clock that ticks benignly in the lounge suddenly sounds like the countdown of a bomb strapped to your chest? Perhaps that's why husbands and wives had separate bedrooms back when: all that snoring and grinding of teeth is bound to get on someone's nerves. 

Short Story Sunday: Birthday Girl

"So it's you," she said. "The Norah Singleton."

I swallowed. 

"Do you two know each other?"

"Not exactly," I said.

"Oh, I know her all right. She's been flirting with my Henry for years."

Short Story Sunday: Tying Shoelaces

The refuse truck shuddered the sash windows as it passed Will's front door. He waited for the last of the diesel fumes to dissipate before starting the timer on his watch. Mrs Phillips' Basset Hound regarded him with watery eyes as he pounded past the daffodils and around the mailbox. There was a bite in the air, not that he noticed. His head was full of yesterday's disaster.

Short Story Sunday: Hidden Detail

"Have you met Tyrone?"

Miss Joan's eyes swept the mess hall as, one by one, the shop assistants turned in the direction of her voice.

"He's joining us as the chief in charge of outdoor apparel."

Her eyes darted in attempt to track the sniggers. Granted, Tyrone was portly, but he'd convinced her that he could handle the demands of the job.

Short Story Sunday: Pieces of a Dream

No matter which way he turned, John could not outrun the branches tearing at his hair and face and arms and legs. The faster he went, the harder they scraped against him, cutting his flesh to scarlet ribbons. The light that was guiding him seemed to be slipping away, and all he could think to do was stop. Stand still. Catch his breath. Try to ride out the pain. As he did, the branches pulled back, his wounds healed and the light grew brighter. He heard a voice that seemed to come from within his own mind: Stop running from the truth, John.

Shutting Down Sadie

As Sadie lowered herself in to the lavender fumes, she offered mental thanks to the inventor of bath bombs. Not only did they provide a bizarre kind of entertainment as they fizzed into obscurity, they were the bearers of soothing oils and scents. Which she desperately needed after the week she had. 

Short Story Sunday: Citizen Jane

Jerry was in a bad mood. His door slammed seven times in the past twenty minutes, not that Jane was really keeping track. The story was that he had the big guns on his case about upping the circulation and not doing enough to keep the advertisers happy. Some days she hated being part of the corporate machine. Her in tray was bulging with letters, and Roger from the mail room popped round to let her know that the Citizen Jane Fan Club, as he called it, needed its corner cleared out, pronto.

Short Story Sunday: Benched

The dream always started the same way: she was searching for something. She never knew what she was looking for, but the sense of urgency about finding it would not let her stop. Once she found herself in the maelstrom of a crowd, looking at people's feet until two clogs appeared. Another time desert dunes undulated before her eyes until she spotted an oasis beyond the mirage. Now she was looking at hats at the races: some were garish, others demure. The dull clip of hooves on the grass grew louder in her head and when she thought she might scream, she saw him, in his trilby, holding a single white rose.

Short Story Sunday: Looking Back

Walter stroked his forefinger against the ridge of his thumbnail. The naked glare of the lightbulb cast shadows as it swayed above the kitchen table. It exaggerated his wife's expression. He thought about leaving. He imagined the sound of the chair scraping the floor, the gape of his daughter's expression as he walked out and the pause before she started her litany of why he was a bad father. It felt as though the walls might close in on them. No. On him. The pressure on his chest morphed into sharp pains in his ribs. Something was going to explode. He stroked the gap between his eyebrows and cleared his throat.

Short Story Sunday: A Bicycle Built for Two

Whenever he was asked to tell the story of how he met Cara, Flick could almost feel the wind in his hair and the judder of the handlebars. As a boy, he loved coasting downhill to the town square, where his presence scattered the nuns and mums like chickens. More than once he had laughed at the fists and shouts thrown in his wake. 

Short Story Sunday: The Taxidermist's Secret

The Taxidermist had a secret. When he toiled for hours on his project of the cat kingdom, the secret surfaced in the small lines between his eyebrows. All of his competitors believed the secret had something to do with his work. Tell us, they would cry, what is it that makes the coats so shiny and the teeth so white? As he always did, the Taxidermist would look at them, smiling his wry smile, and say: it's the formaldehyde.