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Read by Lin Sagovsky
Pepe waited on the street corner in San Antonio, a small Mexican pueblo. He held a long stem red rose and knew la cita, the date, with senorita Lucinda Sanchez was under control. Lucinda’s mother was a problem, but he had a plan for her too.
A moment later Pepe knocked on the door and knew he was the matador going into the ring and Lucinda’s mother was a wounded bull.
Continue reading "The Sacred Duty of Mexican Mothers by Michael McLaughlin" »
Read by Adam Ganne
There was not much time. Soon the edge of the water would push its way against the rocks that ran along the opening of the cave; that would be the first breach. Then the water would halt for a moment, or that’s how it would seem, before it found the line of least resistance. Simon had spent many happy hours imagining how it would happen, from the bottom up he thought, the water lapping its way, gently at first, making little fjords from the spaces between his toes, straddling the lines of his tendons, seeping through the gaps of his buttocks till at last it would find the little hollow beneath the bow of his chest. He smiled again. If he lay down, Simon knew, it would be over sooner, the pleasure more intense but then again, more fleeting. Simon pushed a hand into his pocket and laughed; memories of her... God, he was a lucky man. It was still only six o’clock but the sun was already at the crown of the cliffs. Drowning was a gentle way to die she had said as she turned. Simon closed his eyes. Yes, he squirmed, that was good. It made it even stronger when he thought of her like that, remembered the way she looked when she said things that way.
Read by Paul Clarke
London, August 2009
‘Hello stranger.’
I was expecting her, I knew her voice well, but despite people around us rushing to catch trains, I jumped at her greeting.
She gave me the kind of hug you give at a funeral.
‘You haven’t changed a bit, Joe,’ she said.
Even after all these years, the heft of her body was second nature to me.
Read by Katy Darby Nov_09_Night
“Slow down,” the woman in the back seat says to the driver as he guides the cab onto West 42nd Street from Seventh Avenue.
“It’s a lousy part of town, Miss,” the driver says, cleaning smudges from his glasses with his shirt. “Eden to some, end of the road to others. Why’s a genteel little-old like you wanting to slow down at this time of night in Times Square?”
Read by Silas Hawkins
They say that in the City of London, you’re never more than 6ft from a rat.
Mine was called Boris.
When people said there was a rat following me, I didn’t believe them. I assumed it was an elaborate joke, the sort of thing my brother would orchestrate. I’d laugh, and they’d shake their head and swear that they were sure they’d seen SOMETHING.
Then I saw the SOMETHING they’d seen running along a countertop. I only glimpsed it out of the corner of my eye, but it was fast, and brown.
Read by Susan Moisan
Friday: lunchtime. In the pub, getting drunk. Goodbye drink - have another - leaving work.
Sitting crushed into the corner of a table-for-ten at the Tiger. Feeling slightly sick. Always hated leaving dos. Two too many gins.
Been here over an hour already, the others come and go in shifts - someone has to keep the office open. We'll all be ill by half past three.
Not really listening to their chatter; no need, they aren't talking to me, as though I'd already gone. Anticipating freedom, my pulse is racing, waiting to be on the train, waiting to go home, waiting to leave.
