Short Stories
A bloke I know classifies all birds as either shitehawks or dickybirds. Who knows, perhaps he doesn’t believe it either. Problem is, the line keeps shifting. Too many birds just don’t fit these categories. Take the shearwater. It flies fifty thousand kilometres a year in an endless quest for summer. Small it may be, dickybird it ain’t.
... (read more)The daily special at the Great Northern Hotel that blustery late-November day was chicken schnitzel, mashed spuds, peas and a free pot for four bucks, but Marie’s spelling had struck again. Schitzel would not be passed up by anyone.
... (read more)The boy’s heart sank when he saw the ship.
For as long as he could remember he had held the dream of his first ship. She would be long and sleek, riding low in the water, white, with touches of blue along her prow. The funnel would stand high and proud, with the scarlet insignia of the line.
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Have you ever looked at a duck? There is more to it, to use that peculiar cliché, than meets the eye. Watching ducks has been my labour for some time, but, of course, it will be so only for a limited period. Still, I expect I will always retain the interest now that I have come to know ducks better.
... (read more)While most people were looking forward to the Mid-autumn Festival, she was hoping it wouldn’t come quite so quickly. However, it didn’t really matter what anybody thought, mid-autumn gradually loomed closer and closer.
... (read more)On hearing Samuel Beckett refute his birth date my mother, who was pregnant with me, was thrown into a whirl.
‘He cannot’, she said to a gathering of friends who shared her view that he would praise their new club motto which, they had just decided, would be:
... (read more)Seek disorder, Live for enigma. Beware of fools and false causes.