Short Fiction and Poetry

When Jaali turned ten years old, his birthday gift was a shovel. It was much taller than him, with a rusted blade and a brown handle.[...]

In the eighties there were sacred nights spent with a cassette birthing wastebaskets full of crumpled papers of possibilities. [...]

We wore our band T-shirts so the bride’s father would recognise us. Huddled on a bench, we watched wedding guests trickle [...]

When he opened his eyes, he saw the dust dancing on the dawn sunbeams. He closed his eyes again and reached out with his mind [...]

her beloved grand-daughter was ill. she was cradling Jo Ann in her arms, the rocking chair keeping time with each heartbeat. [...]

“It’s just chocolate; it’s not love.” I feel their eyes upon me as I slide the last of the chocolate bar into my mouth, [...]

can I find where I used to be, again, where I partly grew up and carried my books and clip board and pens in my blue knapsack? [...]

it was the middle of winter but that word didn’t mean anything anymore apart from a grey amnesia of cold [...]

I got out of the car when my sister and her man did, and he clapped his greedy hands. [...]

When he got mad Suddenly and completely We are worthless [...]