Fiction

Chicken a bawl … We used to keep chickens in the backyard. They came to us by way of My Uncle Sam’s Ford Cortina; yellow exterior, black roof and two furry dice hanging from the rear view mirror. Class.

Things Lost by Ioanna Mavrou … Things Lost, a preliminary report, scribbled on the margins of a Cyprus Airways magazine page I should remember to tear off before landing: Ten dollars on a book I don't feel like reading at all, not just on the plane, but possibly ever in my entire life.

Owen had first seen her through glass, and from that angle she was distorted, belly distended as if in pregnancy, face and hips widened.

Durban, 1885 … MR KUMAR, a merchant from India, paced up and down behind the counter of his store on Water Street, blowing on a sheet of parchment and waving it in the air.

I feel as though I’ve been awake for hours or that I haven’t slept at all. But I must have. I was thinking of what you told me once about the solar plexus.

The Cheekovit … The child is eavesdropping on her parents again. She’s seated cross-legged under the dining table, monitoring the situation in the kitchen. TUK-TUK-TUK. Tuk-tuhtuhtuh-Tuk. Tuk-te-Tuk-te-Tuk. That’s her father pounding onions and chillies for a sambal.

The clock says twenty five past one and the moon is full. The wind rustles the trees of our leafy suburban street and the Count in his dark cloak keeps staring lecherously at my neck from the binding of Stoker's Dracula. All we lack now is a wolf to howl.

Day in Cycle: 1 … Chance of Love: Medium … When I touch my girl’s face I could swear the bones beneath the skin aren’t the ones I gave her. ‘Lemme take your bag,’ she says, dragging it and me through the chaos of the place.

Camilla (a journalist) and Ablah (a cosmetic doctor specialising in facial rejuvenation) are having an interview chat in a spare room at Ablah’s clinic. Ablah: I’d estimate you’re thirty-three years old, from the depth of the fountain of lines between your eyebrows.

Jo Stones has lived in South London for thirty-four years, having been born and bred in Sheffield then New Zealand. She returned to study as an adult, graduated with a degree in film and works as an archivist for Film and TV.

Twilight had come and passed over his shoulders and bent head, like a crow. *** … Ali stood on the promontory watching his house burn down, a terrestrial crown of flame within the dark blue heavens.

Ollie was just about to jump when he heard footsteps walking towards him across the stone bridge. Standing frozen on the wall, he never considered anyone approaching at this time of night. Ollie never moved and kept his eyes on the fast flowing water below while he waited for the person to pass.

Read this short story by Ali May, in which a young couple in Tehran, Nima and Rita, are planning their immigration to Canada when they are faced with a sudden medical crisis.   

1. IT DIDN’T SEEM TO MATTER THAT THE FIRST GIRL WENT MISSING WHILE HE WAS STILL AT SEA.

Riley stepped outside the shebeen. Steam was coming off her body. She pulled the grey rabbit-skin jacket around her. Her brown face was bloodless, leeched by the airless underground club. Five o’clock in the morning and she’d had enough of the dub and skanking.

In this short story by Yewande Omotoso, the protagonist returns to Nigeria after being away from the country for thirty years, and experiences a sense of displacement upon return.

The invitation said, “Come one, come all,” but what the hosts of the Barrington Masked Winter Ball meant on that sparkly piece of silver card was, in fact, “You’ve been chosen to attend because of your elegance and prestige.” A beautiful, iridescent…

Kwame Johnson is forty-two and has been coaching Ryan’s football squad since Ryan started playing regularly at eight.

‘A Just War’ … An extract from, South Haven, the first novel by Hirsh Sawhney …   … As they drove to Deer Run Elementary School on that chilly February evening, a light snow wet the windshield of their rust-coloured car.

Romy by Shanara Phillips … The leaden sky opened up and let a drizzle of rain fall over us. Despite the downfall, the air fell still and the atmosphere was eerie. I felt as though I were drowning in the sorrow around me. As if their tears weren't enough, I could really feel their pain as they wept.

Wasafiri is delighted to be launching our new Special Issue, Writing the Balkans, guest-edited by writer and academic Vesna Goldsworthy. As a little taster of the issue, we’re publishing this extract here from acclaimed writer Igor Štiks (translated by Andrew Wachtel).