Schlagwort: short story

Die Dämmerungsrufe in Motihari (In einem Erdteil, wo heutzutage die Kriegsposaunen laut dröhnen.) In der ganzen Welt wollen die Eltern ihre Kinder zur Dämmerung bei sich haben. Das ist ein Faktum. Meiner Meinung nach sollte es keine Ausnahme von dieser Regel geben. Von New York bis Motihari. Unter schneeweißen sonnenarmen Skandinaviern. Und unter den in… Anant Kumar weiterlesen

Modern Phenomenon Mrs. Annunciado’s eyes shift to the walls, eggshell blue. This she is certain of, she saw it on a colour chart recently when she was thinking of painting one of the bedrooms. She knows, however, that colours can be deceptive, that light can interfere with true colour. By true, she means, pure. She… Annette Signorini weiterlesen

Eyes to See I’m on the Swiss Intercity from Zürich to Geneva and have just left my husband back in Vienna. I just walked away. And I cried, as I know he will when he finds my note on the dining room table: “We don’t see things with the same eyes.” I slept surprisingly well… Sylvia Petter weiterlesen

New Shoes for Trumpy The first time I saw him was in our shift room. We were coming in on mornings — early mornings. The night shift were already changed and lying on benches or sagging against walls looking ashen and mean like vampires that have failed to feed and sense the approaching ray of… Neil Grimmett weiterlesen

New Digs When the FOR SALE sign was hammered deep into the trimmed, front lawn of Miss Shimner’s house, the neighbors took notice. Miss Shimner had lived on the cul-de-sac longer than the others. She was not married, but very sociable, and very attractive. And everyone, especially the females of the couples living in the… Paul Tylor weiterlesen

Art Julia began at Kidsworld on the 3rd of February. It was a new amusement park on the Gold Coast, near Dreamworld and Movieworld. It consisted of amusement park rides and baby farm animals and a couple of movie cinemas and plenty of junk food outlets. Julia was a cleaner, working 4 a.m. to 8… Peter deVries weiterlesen

The Beachcomber The Beachcomber brushed the sand from off it. It was another eye stained with seaweed. He rinsed it in a low tide wave that poured crackling towards him, sounding inside his cold cut ear like sherbet exploding over the sands silver tongue. He’d found many before, exactly like this. Blue eyes marooned in… Michael Griffith weiterlesen

A Day in the Life of My Thumb Whack! (thud, thadump, creak, sqush, skadimp) The body fell, crushing me beneath it’s plentiful bosom (what a way to wake up!). Pins and needles, sharp nails, cuticles galore! Ay, what a life! Next, i expect, little J. Horner will have me thrust into a Christmas pie to… Paula Hanasz weiterlesen

The Intellectual Horizon A small and sunlit room. Dust swirling in empty spirals, passing through the sun’s dying rays and burning like pinpoints of ageing light: an atmospheric image of cultivated archaism. In a window a reflection of a city, projecting out amidst the filtering trees. Gone are its people. Their traces mirrored as peculiar… Duncan Allan weiterlesen