The Consumer by Sarah Tinsley The bus lurched, full of leaning bodies. Each of them clutched handbags, trollies, rucksacks, canvas totes with meaningful slogans folded into careful squares. All were w…
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The Curious Child by Nadia Attia The girl’s back again. Curious little thing! Always stands a way off down the road, staring, her chubby hands clutching at her shawl. My own hand twitches at an itch,…
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Nathan stood at the top of the long driveway watching as the last car bumped its way through the gate and onto the dirt road that led down the avenue of tall pines, out across the farm towards the mai…
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One day in 1988 Croft met someone he hadn’t seen for forty-two years. This was a woman called Annabel Kent, though he had known her as Bella. He’d first met her in 1946 in London. He was twenty-six ye…
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As a special seasonal treat we’re very pleased to publish a short story, entitled ‘A Christmas Story’ by the very lovely Byte the Booker, Campaspe Lloyd Jacobs. We hope you enjoy it as much as we did….
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The following extract is the introduction to Joe’s book British Voices: The UK in its own words “I’m not racist,” Rose told me over a cup of tea, “but immigration has got too much.” “I go on th…
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Come home, my mother said For years I had been dreading that phone call in the middle of the night. There’s not much time. It’s your father. In my worst nightmares, all flights out of Li…
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At the bus stop, in the gloaming, a man approaches Emily. He is dressed as Hitler, at first glance, though in the longer run he turns out just to have a carefully clipped moustache. He…
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‘Twelve dozen roses, please. The red ones.’ The man wiped his flushed face, then pointed to a bucket of wilting flowers. Olivia forced a smile, biting back a response that a dozen was t…
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1. Life is good for Morgan, or good enough. Morgan does not want for money or respect. Best of all Morgan has self-respect. He could have more friends, a girlfriend perhaps, but if he reproves himself…
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Without me, you would not know what they were saying. I am their voice, their interpreter, their first line of communication, their conduit. Without me, all would be silence. At least, that’s what I u…
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Dark’s what I see a lot of, stood in a doorway five nights a week, watching people come in and helping others on their way out. I know every shop window next to this bar. There’s Woolies, Old Jacob’s…
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He talks; I sit and listen, nodding my head in continuous acknowledgement. After a while my head grows dizzy and I change to long, comprehending smiles. The sun left us about an hour ago. Now leaden c…
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I do not remember when the Fear appeared on my tongue for the first time. It seems it has always been there, eating my words. Cat got your tongue? That’s what people said to me. But it is the Fear tha…
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You don’t know what it’s like to be alone until the day when your boyfriend, angry as a wasp, leaves you in the crowded plaza in the middle of Cuzco. You sit there, hugging your backpack and kicking y…
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