Fiction

It was me who dropped the box of Band-Aids into the toilet. None of us wanted to admit it, but Ben and Jimmy had had nothing to confess.

Outside, the hot August sun branded everything in its path, seeking out every cleft and angle. But not here. Room 263 of the Samaritan Home was…

When we made love, I thought of nothing but the parakeets. They were four floors below in Samantha’s study. I feared they were starving.

A wise old art dealer in Amsterdam liked to tell a particular story, over appelflappen and coffee, of when he was not so old and not so wise.

He guides his 1950 Massey-Harris tractor out the battered grey doors of the old barn. The rusted hinges of the barn door match the faded paint…

Marcia chose the little photography shop in North Park because one of her work colleagues had recommended it. She’d called the day before…

A newly-appointed primary school teacher got off the rattletrap at the pukka road and headed on foot to the village that nestled among the citrus orchards…

Working the Fire Line – Fierce Fiction by Alan MacLeod – October 21, 2018 The first time I saw her we were on the fire line digging a ditch to contain the blaze. “There’s Beth,” someone said. “ Bobby Freeman’s sister and a damn good digger too.” I saw a short, slender woman in her early twenties, wearing a bright… Read More »Working the Fire Line

My mother saw the raccoon first. She was chopping veggies in front of an open window, hoping for a breeze because it was August, and already hot and sticky…