Short Story Sunday: Raisin Pancakes

I am learning to speak English. It does not matter that I already speak Russian, German, Romanian, Polish and Hungarian. I must learn English too. I have two Bachelors degrees, one Master's and I am halfway through with another.

Short Story Sunday: A Change of Plan

The bus was fuller than usual for a Saturday afternoon. Perhaps there was some event in the middle of town or a gathering of fans; Rowena remembered the last time she'd unwittingly walked into the middle of a flash mob and had had to stand there, helpless, while they flailed and jumped to the tune of some Top 40 hit. She checked her local news app to see if anything was listed. Nothing. The time at the top of the screen snagged her eye.

Short Story Sunday: The Quiet American

He wears a mud brown cap out of habit. It was something he picked up when he lived in Munich in the '70s. It was a way to shield his eyes from the sun and blend into the crowd. 

His last partner teased him. "You look like you're wearing it to hide a bald patch."
"I'm actually hiding my hair so the baldies don't get jealous." He misses the laughter that followed.

He always orders the same thing: a glass of dry white and a side of green olives. Today he's reading Baudelaire. Not because he has to, but because it's likely to make more sense once he's halfway through the wine. The couple at the next table are arguing. He shifts his seat to catch the shade cast by the umbrella. He glances at her from behind his sunglasses. She looks like the head of department he had in Munich, back when the Cold War was in full throttle and he spent his days decoding Russian intel.

Saturday Story: Burning Bridges

Lisa stared at her phone. She willed the notification light to flicker at her, and several times she thought she spotted a glimmer of green at the top left corner of her screen. But no. Nothing. 

Short Story Sunday: Blank Spaces

It doesn't take much for you to think about what was. Today, it's the way the bag of shopping cuts into your shoulder - a weekend's worth of groceries, with some extras you don't need, just because you feel like it. A week ago, it was the way the wind stroked the quadrant of lavender that had sprung up at the start of the season. The way it moved made you think of when she was there.

Short Story Saturday: Traumsee

She awoke facing the wall. The street light left a rectangle above her as it sneaked between the blinds. Beside her, the bed was cold; the sheets thrown back in haste, and the door was left ajar. She sat up and turned to face the window. The mist hung low around the house and the sun created a glare as it tried to permeate the day with light.

Short Story Sunday: In the Shadows

"That man over there is not quite well."

Karl-Hans throws his eyes in the direction of the voice. It was not directed at him, but at Felipe from Spain, who grumbles profanities at the empty space opposite him. And in the shadow of the church of all places.

"I don't want to sit in the sun," she says. 

"All right. What about over there? Just yonder."