Tag: contemporary realism

Black Cat Stories: hard to home and just as likely to honk in your shoe as purr in your faceLeave a comment

Three Kinds of Lost

Suzanne Conboy-Hill

Re-purposed At the bottom of the shopping bag? No. Under the sofa? Nada. Down behind the cushions, then? Oh God, what is that stuff? Sloshed to papier mâché at 40C in a jeans pocket? Better not be. Chased down the garden by a freak wind? In the car, down in the footwell? Your footwell, then? No? Well where? Keep looking. You keep looking. The bird is looking; its beady eyes lasering a line through the branches at the scuttling humans below. It fluffs, pokes around with its beak, and nests its egg on the soft shreds of their wasted effort. _____ Conflicted … Continue reading Three Kinds of Lost

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Black Cat Stories: hard to home and just as likely to honk in your shoe as purr in your faceLeave a comment

Incubators

Suzanne Conboy-Hill

Nick’s body convulsed in a cough that scorched his lungs and expelled a glob of bright, wet material onto the sweaty sheet he held under his chin. He tracked its progress. The group of people clustered in the doorway tracked it too and took an involuntary step backwards. ‘Shouldn’t we have special suits?’ one of them said. ‘It’s only blood and spit,’ someone else remarked, although his laugh was a little strained. Shannon thought about it; the man looked red and hot but he was shivering. ‘Franklin, are you getting this?’ She angled her head-cam towards Nick and described his … Continue reading Incubators

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Black Cat Stories: hard to home and just as likely to honk in your shoe as purr in your face, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Lovely Girls

Suzanne Conboy-Hill

21/09/2013 Lovely Girls Suzanne Conboy-Hill Amy watches the door, that grimy finger-stained gobbed-on portal to fleeting respite from the ward’s stink. The stink that makes her eyes water and saturates her soul. She tries to shift her bottom, to hold her limbs still for just long enough to hover briefly above the puddle of cold pee that has settled in a trough of rucked-up rubber sheeting. No luck, she sinks back. Flails back, in truth: arms threshing, mouth grimacing and spit flying, right onto the wet sandpaper of the twill draw sheet. Edie, inches away in the next cot, lets … Continue reading Lovely Girls

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