The late afternoon light was too beautiful for that moment; out of place in the dreariness of that corner of Abidjan, tucked away among the drab offices of the business district. It reminded me of summer nights in Cape Town when the sun is so seductive you can’t bear the thought of going indoors.
And suddenly we saw everything differently. The simplicity of the story seemed significant, even profound. The simplicity of the language seemed elemental, important. The repetition made beautiful, resonant little circles of words. And everything we’d learned about writing was bullshit.
I wanted a come-to-Jesus-go-to-hell storm of biblical proportions to befall this God-soaked land. She didn’t want pennies from heaven. I wanted a cold, hard million-dollar blast to wipe out this so-called event.
“That was Messing’s Horse at the water trough. Elijah recognized the blue pack roll on the back like the agent had described. Finally, he thought. The man moves fast for someone with nowhere to go.”
“I’m gonna kill you sons of a bitch,” he said, when he saw the torn sheet.
“I found him on a cold day in a slow spring.” New flash fiction from Dez Walker
A collection of all the articles we published last month for those who like their magpies’ tidings as an issue.
And then I knew, after sign upon sign upon sign, I knew as surely as I knew my own self, that I had a ghost living with me.
Some things, when you didn’t understand them, you didn’t try to figure them out. Sometimes you just didn’t want to know.
Both living on their nerves, growing thinner as Tom grew fatter, they refused follow-up visits from the authorities. She missed her post-natal check-up, and they did not attend the vaccination clinic. The authorities became concerned.
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