They’d found her standing rooted to the spot. She was staring at the last place she’d seen them before they disappeared. And it wasn’t a game. Not one she’d played before anyway.
The little one shrugged. They waited for more.
“A clown made my parents. Disappear”. It was as simple as that.
Short Story
Date Published: 12 Aug 2010
2302 words
Casper shut his eyes. It used to be funny. Endearing. Now it was just plain embarrassing.
Casper and Jeanie Redall are doing the Christmas rounds catching up with family, friends and neighbours.
Jeanie never wanted to say it. Never wanted to say it. Not ever again. But the words spoke themselves. They wanted to know. If Jeanie didn’t want to know, they were going to die trying on her behalf.
Casper’s words were on leave without pay. His mind simply couldn’t afford to send any more out into the world. His mind was bankrupt. It was handing out I.O.U’s. and Jeanie had enough of those to kill the foreign debt of a third world country.
Neither men were avid readers although each had accumulated his fair share of glossy hardbacks. Their kids, anxious to impress with each passing fathers day, had seen to that.
“Sergio’s in good nick” said the first man.
The second man looked towards the screen affixed above the bar like some sacred demi-god. It was permanently set to the sports channel and all that entered the pub paid it due homage.
For some people these off-road vehicles conjure up images of urban yuppies and city freeways. For others, it represents freedom to roam off the beaten track.
For me it was merely a means to an ends. 6 passengers. 2 dogs. A flooded creek.
Funny how some things never turn out quite the way you want. Especially when you're on the way to your brother's wedding and you have a guitar between your legs.
Street hawkers. Vendors selling key chains, books, coca-cola or a place to sleep.
You've seen the sights. Gazed at temples and museums. And all you want to do is take time out from the maddening crowd. The hurly-burly of traffic. The incredible heat.
Yet even in between mouthfuls of chicken and fried rice - there is no respite.
Where were you at the exact time you learnt of the death of someone famous? Isn’t it amazing how you can recall details so minute in nature?
How old you were. The degree of heat from the sunlight on your back. The people you were with.
LEXINGTON CRUMP – Part I Short Story
Date Published: 31st December, 2010 |The Turl Times
2020 words
279 unyielding steps stood between Lexington Crump and his post.
Making good his idle time with a silent practical joke, the devil had somehow turned an imitation of the afterlife topsy-turvy. With delicious irony this dutiful path led upwards not to illumination, but darkness.
If only God had a sense of humour.
HOW TO KILL YOUR FAVOURITE CHARACTER Short Story
Date Published: 1st April, 2011 |The Turl Times
3999 words Scores of unseen eyes tracked her from page to page constantly watching her every move. Something big was around the corner. Riley could feel it in her font face. All 12 point Courier of it.
The story of Riley (a femme fatale), Lilac (an exuberant Theme), Mopes (a burnt out, lovable old protagonist) and the mysteriously dressed Minor Support Character.
RED. CIRCLE. THREE. Short Story
Date Published: 1st April, 2011 |The Turl Times
3819 words We were family. It began with that delicious red outfit. I knew Niemen for six years. It didn’t last forever. It wasn’t our destiny. When it counted most. She didn’t want me there for her.
KT, Niemen and Dyllan are the best of friends. And lovers, Children of the World who live a bohemian life and answer to no one but the feelings and care they feel for each other. Until they come together in Moscow, they have no idea that this is the last time 'The Circle of Three' will be as one.
HARVEST Short Story
Date Published: 1st January, 2012 |The Turl Times
3819 words
To Dream meant you had to Harvest.But no one knew the f irst thing about Harvesting, let alone Dreaming. Nobody remembers what it was like to Dream.
Old Man Harvest is dying. Nobody dreams anymore so there is nothing to Harvest. He recounts his life and work, lamenting the loss of something so essential to life, in a one-sided conversation with somebody who has sought him out to find out what his life used to be like. And what dreaming used to be before it was lost.
