Stories published in literary magazines
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My sister called me from a hotel room in Amsterdam. That was how she opened the conversation. ‘I’m in a hotel room in Amsterdam.’ No, ‘hello.’ No, ‘how are you?’ Just a slurred, lost-weekend whisper down the line, while I sat in a room an ocean away, and tried to think of something to say
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The guard at the Leopold Museum does not trust you. He follows you around the room and hovers in the corner, watching as you make your way to the bench and position yourself in front of the painting. It’s his job, you understand that, but all the same, you have to suppress the urge to
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This was the energy in the room that day. The contagious energy of one hundred and eighteen girls all wanting the same thing. We sat there and thought of Jimmy Dillon and Sinéad Fahy together. Jimmy leaving his mark, staking his claim.
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The dark-eyed pick pockets were children really, but old enough for you to shout at them and slap at the hand you felt as it reached inside the bag on your shoulder. It was a stupid thing to do. Your own fault. They are trained to spot the opportunity and there you were, imagining you’re…
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Reason eludes her, replaced, it seems, with a metaphor that’s not her own. She hears Bowie singing, his voice low and strangely soothing. He’s in a parking garage in Berlin, crashing his car over and over and over again, and she thinks, ‘Yeah, that’s exactly how I feel.’
