Short Stories
The Boat by Robert Knox Though sometimes, whenever we were in town, we took you out from the ‘place’ and drove you to one of the little beaches on the North Shore, the sand skimpy and yellow, the water placid, and tried to help you remember things. “There was a boat…” “A boat?” “I remember…”…
I went to work by myself that day because my mom was busy crying. The work is a killer. The soft flesh is easily bruised, so they must be picked, and packed
I wear want-me red with matching stilettos and the bracelet he brought from Venezuela, the earrings received for a birthday meant to echo my crystalline eyes
The Photo by M.H.D.S. Dharshanapriya ‘Where is the photo ? Who took it ? Tell me.’ My sister’s frenzied voice overhauled the usual screeching and rumbling sound of the traffic outside our house. She was sweating profusely and walking to and fro like a caged animal. Father, mother and I were supposed to be the…
Raymond stood at the casket for a long time. It was early in the afternoon and the family would not be back to the funeral home to receive visitors until six o’clock
Waseem Akbar was a friend of my father’s and my uncles – It was the only thing I knew about him. Naturally, the news of his death did not affect me. The burial was in the night.
Once upon a time, there lived an average family. The patriarch, Joe, had an average job making average money with an average company. The matriarch,
She sat upon the verdant hilltop, grass beneath bare feet, chores forgotten. She had come to gather firesticks and water. Instead, she gazed at the ripples on the water
My 70th birthday gift from my daughter was a four-day guided tour of Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe.
“T-minus ten seconds.”
They say that, moments before you die, your life flashes before your eyes.
He slid my just-fallen flip-flop back on my foot. I thought, “He treats me like a princess.”
“What if she finds the body? Oh, man, we should never have buried it there!”
I lay on the table, waiting for the Ultra sound technician to come and look at my heart. It has a hole in it—somewhere on the Septum. My dad told me once
“This doctor new guy says to me about the tumor….”
Bern Vega walked through the front door of his tiny bungalow on Brook Street with the words of the writing class instructor resonating in his head: “If you’re having trouble getting started