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Short Stories

For a city named after debris, Windthrow is surprisingly orderly. The industrial outskirts form a seething ring of poverty and unemployment, but once you overfly that unsavoury moat and breach the city proper, it undercuts the detritus of its name. Downtown Windthrow is a vibrant concatenation of st

'News flash, Nick − we’re getting a new boss.’ Nick Ikaros looked up from his computer. Randi Lake leaned against the doorframe of his office, twisting a lock of dark hair around her delicate fingers. Tall and pale, she favoured the sixties look: oversized glasses and long, dark sweaters ov

There was giraffe snot on my hand and I must have been smiling because Mum was smiling back at me with my shaped grin. Not hers. Two years before that, I handed Mum a picture of a reindeer that I'd drawn and stood back to await approval. She said it was an excellent giraffe. I pretended that it w

The world’s unhappiest billionaire was born on 12 April 1974, in a hospital in Vienna. He was named Markus. His mother was named Katja. His father remained at home. Home was number thirty-seven Neugrabenstrasse, an inauspicious flat on the top floor of a Viennese suburb. The flat may as well ha

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

They’ll be painting the park fence soon.  It could do with a new coat. They do it every now and then. There must be a list of fences they have to paint pinned up on a wall somewhere. They probably do nothing else day in day out but paint fences. Not exactly an interesting life, painting park fenc

'Clumsy Bitch.’ Struggling with her defeated umbrella, Anita had rounded the corner of Quay Street and collided with a similarly encumbered commuter, his face hardened into a discontent not solely the result of this encounter. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Sorry I couldn’t…’ she offered to hi