Charles Thornton was a stenographer. A stenographer is someone who takes notes in shorthand or operates a shorthand machine. I didn’t know that until I happened upon in it in a dictionary, but Charles had known it all his adult life. When he was 11 he received a vision informing him, among other things,… Read more
Selected stories from previous volumes of Riptide.
Christine was managing the office relocation, an opportunity to take her mind off the break-up with Malcolm. Malcolm, however, was health and safety, and everything had to be approved by him. She indicated with a polished fingernail the position of the new building but Malcolm moaned, shook his head and did nervy jazz hands. ‘You’ve… Read more
David Gaffney Fat Dave thought Budapest was shabby-chic. Little Dave thought Paris was shoe-shop-manager-on-a-midlife crisis. Big Dave didn’t want a repeat of Krakow where they had to put on padded clothing and get chased through the woods by attack dogs. So for a laugh. Big Dave suggested they have the stag in Pontefract, where they’d… Read more
He shivers awake. Sand has collected in the folds of his skin and rubbed him raw. He must have had a heavy night. Stag night was it? Some stupid drinking game? That would account for the filthy taste in his mouth, like ashtray dust washed down with car engine juice. He should know better by… Read more
‘What number did you say your house was?’ I said. ‘115,’ said the boy. We pulled over and I mounted the curb, reversed off it, straightened up, mounted the curb again, reversed off it again, wiped the sweat from my forehead and straightened up, leaving the car over a foot away from… Read more
I was at the open window. The bird in the tree was singing to me. It was beautiful. I didn’t know who they were or what they wanted. They stood smiling. The man said, ‘it’s ok, we will see to everything. Don’t worry.’ The woman said, ‘what would you like to bring?’ ‘Listen,’ I said…. Read more