Short Fiction: …I know it’s just his way of telling me he’s sad to see me go. I slip my hand into my pocket and run my fingertips over my ammonite.

Short Fiction: Before I could stop myself, I had him in swimming trunks, kissing me. Next thing I knew, we were lying on a beach, gazing into one another’s eyes.

Short Fiction: I can see him holding on to the far buoy with his head leant back, staring out to the horizon. I watch his bright red cap bob between the waves as I sit in my lifeguard Kayak.

Short Fiction: Get a cab. Don’t walk. The party has started. Little Mo is on the decks, he’s wearing his Moondance T-shirt from the millennium, swaying, can in hand.

Short Fiction: Whistling, I gaze through my reflection. This plexiglass doesn’t look strong enough to hold all that water.

Short Fiction: I was sorry for trying to kiss her if it’s not what she wanted. Hey, it’s OK, she replied. It’s just I’ve never been with a woman. I’m not a woman. You know what I mean.

Short Fiction: Vision and colour crowded in. She was awake too; he could feel her wakefulness through the mattress.

Short Fiction: It’s well known that there’s always a crock of gold at the end of a rainbow. What isn’t so well known is that a double rainbow’s different, and at the end of that there’s simply a big ruckus.

Short Fiction: In lime green flares and a marigold shirt that set off her conker-brown skin, she waved her arms as she described the kind of beasts into which our enemy could transform…

Short Fiction: We knew they would come; it was only a matter of when, so we responded quickly to the alarm.

Short Fiction: Lana’s thoughts drift back to the strange call. Who was asking for help? Why did they call this number?

Short Fiction: You reach for a book and blow the dust off, watching it fly around the dimly-lit room. It’s the story of the Baobab Tree.

Short Fiction: The first time the man arrives at the ballet studio, the girls ignore him. An embarrassing father come to watch a class, probably, or a friend of Miss Maisie.

Short Fiction: My father left Damascus like a lover creeping from his mistress’ bed in the dark of night.

Short Fiction: Johnny Pulp used to be a girl. It’s not his favourite thing about himself, but that’s the deal.

Short Fiction: This morning I imagined breaking up with Alice.

Short Fiction: …we had appendicitis flapjack (my cousin Mary), banana bread broken leg (me), lung cancer linguine (Aunty Joan), heart attack hummus (Grandma Phyllis)…

Short Fiction: …we had appendicitis flapjack (my cousin Mary), banana bread broken leg (me), lung cancer linguine (Aunty Joan), heart attack hummus (Grandma Phyllis)…

Short Fiction: If someone broke into your house now, how would you get out?

Short Fiction: Whoever named this town Prosper had a sense of humour, and no one was laughing anymore…

Short Fiction by Jane Idrissi