After a record-breaking 600 entries, we are delighted to announce the shortlist for this year’s Short Story Prize. The selected stories will be judged by Omar Robert Hamilton, Kishani Widyaratna, and...
For my partner’s first visit to his village, my father brings us to the highest peak of the Pyrenees....
Outside, the rain seems
always on the brink Like
most people that morning
I was avoiding my father’s
funeral I must’ve stood
at the door with my coat on
for hours, always turning
back as though putting off
seeing a film It was the sort of day
for wearing an old shirt
into town to buy a new shirt
The rain began The wind
agitated the lake The sort
of lake you can’t when
giving directions from the road
miss The sort of road
people call ‘the high road’
leading down to the lake
people call ‘the old lake’
from which the wind brings
news of the drowned boy
It would’ve been easier if she hadn’t been known For the chickens. But she was famous for these white,...
you’ll be the war and I’ll be the war-torn
and I’ll be underground resistance
printing pamphlets on sugar paper
and you’ll be the war
and I’ll be the girls back home
and the boys on the front line
and the songs that they sing to be brave
when they’re frightened
or
I’ll be the war and you’ll be the war-torn
I’ll be the war and you’ll march against me
with the placards that say MAKE LOVE – NOT YOU
then and I’ll be the war
you won’t believe I’m even happening
you’ll duck and cover as I paint the town red
and when I tumble home across the whole horizon blasted
you’ll be ruined
