Prose samples:
Facing the Fence
She wipes the dust from her eyes and blinks at the barbed wire fence that stands before her. Runs towards it and leaps up it like a cat. Throws one leg over the top, then the other, but catches it on a barb, hears the sizzle of skin, and falls backwards.
She lies on her spine, stares up at the sky and groans. Rolls onto her stomach and crawls towards the fence. Starts digging. Puts aside a hill of sand and hits something hard. Peers down the hole, and sighs at the fence sunk in concrete.
She tugs at the mesh, but it is as taut as a tennis racket. She grunts and kicks the fence. Follows it over the field, a hill, and another field. The Sun bears down on her like an oven. And she falls. Pushes herself up, and fumbles on.
First Published in Flash Frontier, March 2023: Rā | Sun. Web.
Back to the Drawing Board
He places a piece of paper on the drawing board and a box of watercolours and a glass of water on the table beside him. Dunks his brush in the water and then in the green paint. Faces the piece of paper like a fencer. Makes four strokes and rubs his chin. Plunges his brush into the glass. Whips it out and runs its bristles against the red paint. Loops circles above the strokes. Then throws the brush to one side and picks up a thicker tipped brush. Paints brown boxes beneath the strokes. Rinses the brush. Prods the yellow paint and covers the bottom of the picture with a series of strokes. Then sits down and sneezes. Rubs his nose on his arm. Stands up and walks over to his jumper that is lying in a ball in the corner of the room. Gives it a shake. And puts it on.
Lifts the red-tipped paintbrush. Drops it in the water and stirs it around. Pulls it out and dips it in the blue paint and paints from the top down. Then lays the paintbrush across the top of the glass and sneezes once more. Wipes his nose on the cuff of his jumper. Then snatches the brush off the top of the glass, plunges it in the water, and swirls it around and around and around. Dips his brush in the red paint. Colours in the circles and slips through the paper to the board underneath. Frowns. And screws the picture up. Trudges over to the window and crouches beneath the ledge. Picks up a fresh piece of paper, and steps back to the drawing board.
First Published in The Fortnightly Review, 8 December 2020. Web.
And Brings Up Loose Dirt
He kneels in front of the cabin. He thrusts his long fingers into the ground, and brings up loose dirt. The sun illuminates him as he digs. He strikes something hard, and pulls out a potato. He places it in front of him like a prize. He plunges a hand back into the earth. A shadow casts over him. He gets to his feet and tilts his head upward: nothing but blue sky. He considers going into town. But he may see the mayor. More than once the elected official has taken him aside and congratulated him on the polished redwood dining tables he used to make. Then the mayor asks why the business shut down. Each time, he fails to respond. He kneels in front of the cabin. He thrusts his long fingers into the ground, and brings up loose dirt.
First published in Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine 7.1.
Facing the Fence
She wipes the dust from her eyes and blinks at the barbed wire fence that stands before her. Runs towards it and leaps up it like a cat. Throws one leg over the top, then the other, but catches it on a barb, hears the sizzle of skin, and falls backwards.
She lies on her spine, stares up at the sky and groans. Rolls onto her stomach and crawls towards the fence. Starts digging. Puts aside a hill of sand and hits something hard. Peers down the hole, and sighs at the fence sunk in concrete.
She tugs at the mesh, but it is as taut as a tennis racket. She grunts and kicks the fence. Follows it over the field, a hill, and another field. The Sun bears down on her like an oven. And she falls. Pushes herself up, and fumbles on.
First Published in Flash Frontier, March 2023: Rā | Sun. Web.
Back to the Drawing Board
He places a piece of paper on the drawing board and a box of watercolours and a glass of water on the table beside him. Dunks his brush in the water and then in the green paint. Faces the piece of paper like a fencer. Makes four strokes and rubs his chin. Plunges his brush into the glass. Whips it out and runs its bristles against the red paint. Loops circles above the strokes. Then throws the brush to one side and picks up a thicker tipped brush. Paints brown boxes beneath the strokes. Rinses the brush. Prods the yellow paint and covers the bottom of the picture with a series of strokes. Then sits down and sneezes. Rubs his nose on his arm. Stands up and walks over to his jumper that is lying in a ball in the corner of the room. Gives it a shake. And puts it on.
Lifts the red-tipped paintbrush. Drops it in the water and stirs it around. Pulls it out and dips it in the blue paint and paints from the top down. Then lays the paintbrush across the top of the glass and sneezes once more. Wipes his nose on the cuff of his jumper. Then snatches the brush off the top of the glass, plunges it in the water, and swirls it around and around and around. Dips his brush in the red paint. Colours in the circles and slips through the paper to the board underneath. Frowns. And screws the picture up. Trudges over to the window and crouches beneath the ledge. Picks up a fresh piece of paper, and steps back to the drawing board.
First Published in The Fortnightly Review, 8 December 2020. Web.
And Brings Up Loose Dirt
He kneels in front of the cabin. He thrusts his long fingers into the ground, and brings up loose dirt. The sun illuminates him as he digs. He strikes something hard, and pulls out a potato. He places it in front of him like a prize. He plunges a hand back into the earth. A shadow casts over him. He gets to his feet and tilts his head upward: nothing but blue sky. He considers going into town. But he may see the mayor. More than once the elected official has taken him aside and congratulated him on the polished redwood dining tables he used to make. Then the mayor asks why the business shut down. Each time, he fails to respond. He kneels in front of the cabin. He thrusts his long fingers into the ground, and brings up loose dirt.
First published in Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine 7.1.