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Short story category: 10 Minutes

The train doors hissed like a soft drink can, spilling passengers out of the carriage. Through the platform speakers, a sweet-sounding woman said something about standing back from the doors in a British accent before repeating it in Cantonese. An office man balancing a briefcase in the air almost e

It's March and still the snow is falling, thick sooty flakes of it. It settles on heaps of slush, growing out of the ground like mould. Treacherous grey puddles line the road and a passing lorry leaves Vasilisa drenched. The driver speeds away and Vasilisa gives him the finger. She knows that in his

The rough clay figure of a turtle that looks at Rosemary from the shelf above her desk is a gift from her daughter after returning from her year abroad: ‘Here, this is for you, Mum. I bought it in a village near Quito.’ The girl’s round face looks up at her from the floor where she has b

The rain ran down Dave’s nose slowly and then dripped, noiselessly, on to the mud he was moving about on. Sometimes the rain also went down his back, somehow having got inside the inadequate anorak he was wearing. And it also crept deviously into his shoes; starting at the toe, it felt like it was

The woman in the house opposite sits in her window, net curtains falling in an arch around her. She stares into the deserted road as though watching a switched-off TV waiting for a programme to begin. At regular intervals she wanders off, returning with a sandwich or a cup and saucer, and drinks wit

The deadline was all he could hear. ‘Midnight tonight.’ Those two words resounded again and again in his head. There was no respite. 180 days and nights had passed since he’d watched one ball follow another, and another. Each one branded with his number. The first five numbers formed his date

He pedals with bold, heavy movements and when there’s an incline, he swings his legs out and flies, silent and free. I envy him his perfect happiness. I pedal as fast as I can, always behind him, trying to copy. He’s wearing shorts, quite rightly. It’s a balmy summer holiday evening, the air s

Hammer toes were something she’d been born with. Her grandmother had truly awful feet – toes overlapping, varicose veins, bunions and all sorts. Summertimes, when she set them free in sandals, were grim. ‘Don’t look down’ was the collective agreement at family get togethers. Chloe’s w