He rapped his knuckles against the side of his glass. His nerves were getting the better of him. Scraps of apologies flitted around in his head, but he couldn’t make anything coherent from them. Nothing that she would accept. … Continue reading »PROSE: Chasing Regrets
The cigarette dangles from his hand, dropping ash on the scuffed surface of the table. He doesn’t notice. His eyes are focused on a spot on the dark wood, but his gaze is turned inward, sifting through the fog of … Continue reading »PROSE: Recall
The pen hadn’t been worth stealing. Just a biro, maybe worth fifty cents new. Second-hand? Nothing. Literally worthless. She tossed it onto the coffee-table and slid her hands into her pockets to clutch a tissue in one, Chapstick in the … Continue reading »PROSE: Missing Pieces
March. A dissertation on Freedom. She browses through the library stacks for Freud’s “Jokes and their Relation to the Unconscious.” Reading it at home that evening she finds a passage underlined that exemplifies what she seeks from the book: “Freedom … Continue reading »PROSE: Time
The wine’s been drunk. She’s lifted the bottle more than once to see if there’s another drop she can coax from its neck. Each time is as unsatisfying as the last. “We need some more wine,” she grumbles. “Yeah, well, … Continue reading »PROSE: One Evening
The Old Woman liked to dance. On Saturdays she would set up the gramophone, and sway to the music alone until someone came to dance with her. The Old Woman was white: white of skin, white of hair, clad in … Continue reading »PROSE: Adagio
She lit the cigarette. Put it to her lips. Took a pull, long, savouring it. Pressed the glowing end against her freckled forearm and let it sear. “Hey.” She dropped her leg down from the wooden crate serving as her … Continue reading »PROSE: Sin Eater (the original short story)
The night was dark, the moon a sliver in the western sky. It hid behind a cloud, from time to time peeking out to cast its faint light down upon the world. In the cemetery, there was activity. Johnson put … Continue reading »PROSE: Resurrection Men
Her eyes. It was always her eyes that grabbed me, forced me to pay attention to her and only her. Those eyes are large – too large, in fact. On someone else they would have looked strange, or frightening. On … Continue reading »PROSE: She
They’re hideous clichés. They feel the shame of it, the sour tang of guilt every time they indulge themselves in something they love. They are self-conscious. Aware of the rôles in which they find themselves to the point where their … Continue reading »PROSE: Stages