Fiction
Extract from 'Thirst'
It’s hot in the theatre, the glass roof panels channelling fierce sunlight. A carafe of water with a chunky glass sits just out of reach on the table in front of her. It taunts her being so close and her throat dry from reading, gritty from the open car window. It’s still cool, condensation clouds the base but she would need to stop reading, walk that little distance and then the spell would be broken. What she’d really like, she decides, is an ice-cold beer; to run her finger up the stem of the bottle, have the drops cool her swollen fingers. She imagines that first sip, bitter and fizzing softly in her throat. Sadly Gayle doesn’t look the type to suggest it, besides Odette has to drive. To read the whole story, click on the link below: https://eunoiareview.wordpress.com/2019/08/06/thirst-3/ Extract from 'Flamenco Tat' Light splashes through the stained glass window, flooding the carpet with colour. As a little girl she’d loved bathing in the translucent strands and relished the way they’d clothed her skin. Purple was her favourite because it made her happy and she loved the underwater feeling of emerald green. The blue was deliciously calming and made her sleepy. Orange could be sickly if you got too much of it and red made her so itchy that she’d continued to avoid it. ‘Why are you standing there, Poppet?’ Robert would ask, but such things were hard to explain and though he ruffled her hair and nodded seriously, she could tell that he didn’t understand. To read the rest of the story, click on the link below: cabinetofheed.com/2019/09/07/flamenco-tat-chloe-balcomb 
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Flash Fiction - Black My mother took to wearing black. People assumed my father had died when in fact he was very much alive, although increasingly reclusive. They say it’s a colour best avoided in age, that it leaches the complexion yet she carried it well, perhaps because this was not the dull black of mourning but something lacquered, steely, almost iridescent. I noticed a change in her step too. Her walk had become staccato, a kind of bobbing motion, which gave her an agitated air. I enquired if her joints were playing up and she eyed me with one of those unnerving stares I had so feared in childhood. Expressing concern about her health incensed her, reminding her of the fact of age, something she assiduously ignored, ‘Nothing wrong,’ she had said shortly, flipping one sleek sheathed leg over the other. In the past year she had become increasingly disdainful of my presence, ignoring invitations and jibing harshly at my vegetarianism, a lifestyle choice that deeply irritated her. ‘Give me a good steak any day,’ she would mutter, though no longer under her breath. Even so, I was unprepared for Tuesday’s discovery. I arrived just after nine and spotted my father busying himself down by the apple trees. He looked preoccupied and since the back door was open I walked straight in My mother was standing at the kitchen table, her dark head bowed over what I took to be the Sunday joint. Oblivious to my entrance, she picked with ferocious intensity at the meat, nails flashing. I coughed politely and she swung round, a ribbon of dark flesh trailing from her lips. Sensing my shock, she pushed the carcass under a tea towel and began stacking the dishes, ‘You should have knocked, ‘ she said after a while. ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘I should.’ She turned away from me abruptly signalling an end to the conversation. Feeling chastised and frankly unwelcome I slipped away without alerting my father to my presence. I slept badly and woke irritated, deciding I should return that morning and have it out. But she was nowhere to be seen. My father was digging in his usual spot, his greeting wary. He looked tired, I thought. ‘Is Mum alright?’ I asked He was silent for a moment, his gaze on the open fields and I felt the prickle of his own unease, ‘Surely, surely,’ he replied, ‘a little sharper than usual. Is that what you mean?’ I noticed that he would not meet my eyes so I waited until he spoke again, ‘Yes,’ he began slowly,’ you ruffled her feathers yesterday, catching her with that pigeon.’ I nodded my assent. ‘Carrion,’ Dad continued slowly, ‘she’s always had a taste for it. Strange some might think, but really no different to game, that same strength of flavour.’ I hid my revulsion, nodding as if I understood, ‘Where is she now, by the way?’ ‘No idea,’ he said, his voice harsh now. ’You know your mother, always flying off somewhere.’ |