Short Story Sunday: The Portrait

"That's a lot of money for such a small picture," she said. "And it's not even a work of art, as such. It's just a print on some strips of wood."

Short Story Sunday: The Lighthouse

Sarah tried to ignore the wind and focus on her sketch. She'd clamped the pages down to prevent them fluttering, but she was having a hard time keeping the book still. The light was just right and she wanted to capture the moment before the clouds saturated the view with grey. The water was calm, save for the wake of small yachts or adrenaline junkies skimming the waves with their kites. Behind her, local dialects and raucous laughter spilled out of the waterside pub and skittered across the street. She hooked her left ankle around the railing, willing the wind to give her respite.

"You might want to move."
She assumed the voice was directed at someone else, and continued shading.
"Excuse me? You might want to move."

The Old Bookshop on Party Mile

"Hey Uncle," he said. "I wanna buy a book, Uncle." It sounded like he said "bayah buk".
"Sorry, we're closed."
"Ach, no man, Uncle man. I wanna bayah buk, man."
The girl on his arm giggled, and clutched at his pleather jacket. "Let's go, Luke."
"Nah, but I wanna book."
"Tomorrow, Luke. We'll get you a book tomorrow." She yanked his arm, and he stumbled after her.
"Ok, bye. Bye, Uncle." 

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.