Short Stories

    Rachel sneaked aboard at six bells, deep in the night. The ringing masked her tread. The snores of the sailors cloaked her steps, but still, the floorboards creaked. She thought of her sister, held hostage behind the cold stone in Boston Gaol. Rachel steeled herself. She had to get to Nassau.    

    I saw my first hanging in Wapping when I was four years old. My father swung me up on his shoulders so I could see across the rabble of spectators. The prisoner was a scrawny youth accused of stealing a gentleman’s horse, and as they dragged him to the gallows, his britches darkened

    The fucker stole the phone right out of my hand. I was in the middle of writing you an annoyingly difficult text, waiting at the bus stop to meet you, and before I knew what I was doing, I was running down the street after him, giving chase with unreserved fury.    

I carve deep grooves into the face before me, loose sand falling to the ground in small red piles. The eyes stare back at me with conspicuous intent, concentrating as I do on the task at hand. I do not know why my touch forms the sand as it does, why it holds shape against

V isha screwed the silencer onto her Glock-19 and rested its tip on the SUV’s steering wheel. She aimed past the windshield and fixed her sights on Igor’s forehead. Visha wore all black: her lean jumpsuit, boots, gloves, and a scarf that concealed a shock of blond hair. Everything was black. Igor would never spot

I   magine Genesis, order from disorder.         I sat on the sun-warmed tarmac with seventeen other female prisoners waiting to board a transport named Eagle of Peace. Ironic name for a sinister-looking vessel, which reminded me of something cobbled together by a mad scientist using mismatched nuts and bolts. But the

Y ou do this man, we crew, yeah?” I nod, but it’s lost in the shake that has taken hold of me. I try to speak, but the drum and bass beat of the car radio batters my heart into a rhythm. I grip the steering, feeling my knuckles blanch.          “We

O   n my desk, nestled among the chess pieces I use for paperweights, is a To Do list with a single entry.         Plan Life         This should mean that sometime today I’ll be doing whatever such a note is meant to imply. It should mean that, but,

“…Travellers ne’er did lie,  though fools at home condemn them.” (William Shakespeare: The Tempest; Act 3, Scene 3) D aphne and Ari pulled up at the recharging station next to Conway Convenience Store. She said, “While you charge her up, I’ll pop in for an iced peppermint cone. D’ya want one?”