Short Stories


Buried is a short story I wrote at the end of 2020. It was first published in March 2021 by CafeLitMagazine. The opening paragraphs are below, and you can visit the CafeLitMagazine website to read the full story.


Some people have happy memories of school, forever wishing they could return to those carefree times.

Not me.

I hated school, especially sports. Each week I got Mum to write a note about a sprained ankle, sore back, or ingrowing toenail. The games teacher recognised the weak excuses, and made me watch in the cold, where I stood, wishing I could be normal, running after the ball like the others, without my belly jiggling under my shirt.

Hugging my trombone case brought comfort, knowing I was good at music. That, and chess. I would look at my watch every few minutes, worrying I might be late for computer club. When Sir blew his whistle, I hurried to the changing room to collect my school bag, which stood out among the smart Gola and Head ones, a cheap, nasty thing, like my Tommy Balls shoes.

I was a typical target for a bully.

It began on the bus. I had my trombone case between my legs, cradled in my arms. There was a thump next to me as the boy who was about to become my bully plonked down and dropped his bag on the floor. I had never noticed him before, and he didn’t speak. He had no reason, until the bus turned onto the main road out of town.

Continue at CafeLitMagazine


Photo by Riccardo Fissore on Unsplash.

Blog Posts

Where have I been?

I’ve been quiet lately, and haven’t read much since I wrote my review of Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity, back in January. I’m reading a few short story collections by Graham Mort, Stephen King, Ernest Hemingway, Ray Bradbury, and John Steinbeck, so I’m not completely idle, but they are taking some getting through.

My main reason for being quiet is a novella I’ve been editing. I wrote it over twenty-five years ago, but when I went through it last year, I felt I should work on it some more. During the edit, I cut about fifteen percent, and think I have a much tighter piece of work now.

I’m also waiting to hear about the novel I wrote last year, provisionally titled A Different Path. After several rounds of edits, I’m expecting some professional editorial feedback which will help me determine the next steps to publication.

In addition to all the above, at the back end of last year, short stories were flowing out of me at a rate, and I’ve been submitting a few to online literary magazines this year. I hope to share some good news on that front, very soon.

So, you could say I’ve been busy.

Photo by Francesco Gallarotti on Unsplash.

Close Reads

Close Read: The Lottery by Shirley Jackson

The Lottery is a short story by Shirely Jackson, first published in The New Yorker in 1948. It contains many classic folk horror tropes, and is an interesting story because of the way it fools the reader into thinking something else is happening, almost until the end.

Warning: contains spoilers.

The story opens just before the annual village lottery, for which the villagers assemble in the square to witness the swearing-in of the official, followed by the draw.

Everything is bright and summery in the opening paragraph, with plenty of nostalgia and positivity, but the second paragraph mentions how the feeling of liberty that comes with summer holidays sits uneasily with the children, perhaps planting a seed that something isn’t quite right. There is also mention of some of the children carrying heavy stones around in pockets, building a pile of them in the corner of the square. This will obviously serve some purpose later in the story.

We are introduced to Mr Summers, who has time for civic duties such as running the lottery, and two of the other villagers come forward to help hold the black wooden box while he stirs the paper contents.

The tradition is one that has been going on for a long time, as evidenced by the deterioration of the black box, which some say was constructed from pieces of the original black box made by the first settlers when the village was founded.

A character called called Clyde Dunbar isn’t present due to a broken leg, so his wife has to draw for him. This causes some consternation and Mr Summers asks if there isn’t an older son to do it instead. There isn’t, so he concedes that Mrs Dunbar will have to draw for their family. This is another hint at a deep-rooted tradition being followed.

The ceremony gets under way, and the head of each family is called up one-by-one to draw a folded piece of paper, which they must hold it in their hand without looking at it until everyone has drawn. Some of the women remark how the year has flown by and it seems like a week since the last lottery. Another reminder that this happens every year.

There is talk of neighbouring villages stopping, or considering stopping, their annual lotteries. Old Man Warner, who is attending for the seventy-seventh time, is incredulous and thinks they are fools, and that the lotteries should continue, saying, “Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon”, which suggests the villagers believe the annual event somehow brings good luck for the coming harvest, or prevents bad luck.

A sense of excitement and anticipation builds as the drawing of the papers continues.

As the heads of the families unfold their papers, it appears Bill Hutchinson is the winner, but his wife, Tessie, begins protesting that Bill wasn’t allowed to choose any ticket he wanted, and that it isn’t fair. At this point it becomes clear that the lottery may not be what it seems.

Mrs Hutchinson continues to protest and Bill is given what appears to be another draw. Five papers, one for each member of his family, are put back in the box, and the members of his family are called up one-by-one to draw again. This time Tessie draws a paper bearing a black spot.

People begin to gather stones from the pile the children made earlier in the corner of the square. A space is cleared and Tessie is in the centre of it. She continues to protest it isn’t fair, even though she appears to be the winner.

The crowd moves in carrying stones, and we discover that the lottery is not a happy tradition during which a family member wins and is awarded a prize, but a sinister ritual during which the person who drew the black spot is stoned by the other villagers.

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash.