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Author tags: Short Stories

Miss Rosie Burns, 1960 Rosie Burns expected to be a famous pianist. She preferred sleek, black concert grand pianos, which showcased her petite prettiness and pearly arms. Much of her student grant was invested in hand creams. Her fair hair was pampered with camomile rinses. And she transformed c

Let me tell you about yourself. You were only a little unhinged. You just wanted a quiet life. Where could be quieter than a national park? A job in a national park. Trees. Lakes. Mountains. Tranquillity. There were the tourists, of course, but you learned to avoid them. Besides, there wouldn’t

The snow monkey groomed her baby into baldness. Pluck, pluck, pluck – as though every soft, honey-brown hair were a tick or a tangle. She only stopped when asleep or eating; and she always resumed as soon as she caught sight of the other monkeys’ neat babies. Pluck, pluck, pluck. Elise came t

Most archaeologists of Ged’s acquaintance could not resist taking something from every site they visited. Nothing crucial, nothing that could affect the interpretation of the site, not ‘treasure’ (he loved the fact that treasure was still a legal concept in the twenty-first century). Just stuf

Two months ago, Anna’s mother withdrew from public life and began collecting assassinations. Her first acquisition, according to most reports, was a cumbrous reproduction of Gérôme’s The Death of Caesar, which she dangled above the fireplace of her dimly lit sitting room. The exact order of he

On Tuesday, Neil slaps Anna for leaving a knife unwashed in the kitchen sink. The stinging flat of his palm against her cheek is forceful enough to knock the back of her head against the gleaming cooker hood. Anna apologises. She mentally marks his assault as a four on her private scale from one to

Patrick focuses his whole attention on the cat. He watches it roll over and scratch along its back with one leg as if the fur is an old coat to be discarded for the summer. He isn’t allowed to stroke Molly. He didn’t earn enough points in lessons this morning. Mummy was quite explicit. ‘

‘Leather hard! It’s not what you think!’ Evan said, looking pleased with himself. He stood in front of the class as we sat around the well-used tables that filled the small studio space. I didn’t get it. I knew nothing about ceramics and had no clue what ‘leather hard’ meant. I didn’t