a metaphor on social death — Make the jump. These words did not so much flash across Rita’s mind, as course through her body, as she teetered on the cold stone ledge. Rita had been plagued with a sensation of prescient doom for many weeks, since her trust in normality all came to a head on…

a metaphor for my life lately — She stepped out ill prepared for the worst. After all, the mute-grey blanket of the sky threatened nothing more than a bland muggy stillness — as that had been the weather’s state all day. Still, just in case, she kept a small umbrella — at the ready, tucked under her…

you are my media naranja — your essence makes my pip whole Glossary of Spanish Words media naranja other half, better half, soul mate

When the dish tried to run away with the spoon. — It was cleaning day at Fossil’s Mansion, and this was never a simple or easy affair. Everything, and I mean absolutely everything, got scrubbed, polished, washed, swept, rinsed, soaked and generally cleansed — to the last inch of its natural existence — by the Mansion’s battery of domestic staff. Cleaning…

when fiction tells reality’s story of woe much better — It had been so long since Lucille had been paid and she could not work out how she had gotten herself into such a 21st century predicament. If she was to believe the pundits, she now needed to categorize herself among the precariat: one of many contemporary people who did…

A “Wise World Without End” tale for our times — It was foretold by the Oracle that the dark days would come, when we — the Abassa sentinels — would have to lay down our glorious wings in sacrificial exchange for freedom. And of course, when the day came, it was much like any other ending: sudden, sharp and laden…

A Mystical Tale of Our Kind Dimelda stood over the now tepid Aga cooker, staring blindly at the kitchen wall — while the bottom-end of her ladle rose effortlessly in the thick potion. Neglected, it had no option but to rise and float in the concoction simmering on the stove. …

a brief account of the mediocre en dos lenguas — No puedo describir como era aquella mañana cuando me desperté con rapidez porque pensaba que mi vida no andaba como yo quería. Pero en mi memoria debil, tengo la sensación distinta del color gris; un gris tan gris como las aceras rotas que son, a veces, cubierta de la mierda…