Fiction

The month is August. I have been writing invitations earlier at home

The first instinct the fruit fly had was to feed. Feed, grow, feed, grow- all for her sister-self.

Wiebke woke up more tired than she’d gone to bed, though she’d slept late, and her husband had already left

She named the fish Hamilton, after another secretary, another fish

My mother called herself a modern-day witch. With all of her poultices and potions, I thought of her more as a mad scientist

All they wanted, they said once we got to the room, was a conversation

It took them three days by car before they reached the desert. Towards nightfall, in a dusty little town in the high Utah plateau, they passed the Wishing Well

A rooster puttered outside Gabby's hut and she awoke with a thick paste on the roof of her mouth, her head splitting from last night’s arrack, a palm sap alcohol that was popular on the island

Compared to many of his peers in Idundi village, Nelson is a pretty noticeable kid

It all began with a different conversation, in a different city. I came home from school to find that you had hidden your toy—a small woodland creature, a bushy-tailed squirrel—in the vase I’d made with mum.