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The Single Chapter Stories 2

The Single Chapter Stories 2

 
Ordinary by Abigail George
18 January 2011
I wish he had the guts to smack her. Really get into it with her and give her one. Leave an imprint of his hands against her face. I wait to see his nails cutting into her throat like a shard of glass; splintering off. I want her to feel like I do; wand
Smiley by Abigail George
03 June 2011
Smiley missed his mother\'s touch and her kisses which felt like the smooth, ruffling of feathers. She worked as a domestic worker what people where he lived in the location called a kitchen girl in the house of a wealthy white family in Port Elizabeth, S
Paradise Road by Abigail George
24 January 2011
With my mother\'s illness came a demonstration of darkness visible at the roots of it all that I couldn\'t explain away. I shifted the sand through my fingers. I counted my toes. I thought about people who lived though awesome, magnificent, terrifying bli
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Madlands by Abigail George
27 January 2011
I was holed up in Tara for 6 months in Johannesburg. At first I wasn\'t really into the idea at all. My state of mind wasn\'t mental, crazy or insane or that of a crazy lunatic going on a rampage thinking that I was the reincarnation of Jesus. I just need
Cynthia's journey by Abigail George
30 January 2011
When Cynthia first laid eyes on the seawater at Hobie beach she fell in love with it. She had been following the city and the beachfront through the pane of a window on a bus. All the restaurants, the people selling crafts, animals carved intricately out
The Pixies in the Glen by Francine L Trevens
27 February 2011
In the middle of a forest in New Hampshire, there was a delightful little glen. It was a round open space of grass surrounded by trees and bushes, with little flowers like bluettes and dandelions and forget-me-nots growing amid the grass.
Wintering between Glaciers by Abigail George
02 May 2011
For as long as I can remember I have talked to the dead, spirits that have passed on to the hereafter and in that aftertime I housed collections of every kind, blank pages as clean and pure as milk, the estate of moths, my useful tools frigid like the wea
The Nemesis, arch-rival that also faced Sylvia Plath by Abigail George
06 May 2011
This is how I remember Helen Maartens. The Magi and the Owl House; their tethers tug like flame at my heartstrings and I wonder about her wounds, her coy magical healing, did she ever prepare a delicious, warm cake for her friend, that social worker that
Red by Abigail George
23 June 2011
We bleed the same in each line as if we have only felt love now for the first time. Summer is here no more. Once my father had a girl called June. He watched her turn to stone in his hands until she was nothing more than a ruffling of feathers or a soft p
The Aftermath of Loneliness by Abigail George
04 August 2011
There\'s mad isn\'t there? The kind of mad when you have lost everything and there is nothing more to lose and then there are the aerodynamic principles of the motion of air and gases that seem to exist even when you\'re dreaming. There\'s mad wanderlust
Virginia Woolf in the Flesh by Abigail George
20 October 2011
Before she began her day\'s work Virginia Woolf began to write painstakingly yet in a beautiful old-fashioned script in her diary. \'Madness is not a proper sitting-down affair like a dinner or high tea. Its black wonder, in all its glorious power and kin
Burning in the rain by Abigail George
25 October 2011
It is too cold to swim but she takes his hand. It is beach weather but it is still too cold to swim. She knows she is being brave at this point; even her rage is poetic as she feels the world, her world and the information in it blackening around her. Eve
The Most Perfect Volcano by Abigail George
29 October 2011
Most scenarios start with a knife digging into your back, an enemy\'s face you cannot glimpse, a flame burning bright inside of you when you stare into the distance or think out loud, when a daughter inherits mostly the makeup of her father\'s genes (this
Kenneth's Feats of Pretty Things by Abigail George
31 October 2011
To keep my mind away from you, teacher, to stop it from enthralling me, to keep the knowledge of you clean, pure I am a collection of lost and found, an uneducated volcano, impatient smoke and the voice of denial. I have become a series of pounding satell
Stone Voice by Abigail George
14 November 2011
Here in this courtyard with its garden chairs, washing line, grass shooting feebly out of the ground, a patio for the semi-productive crazies, there is a line beaming through all the hospitalised residents. Outside I can feel the wind move through me. In
Light on a snowy day by Artie Knapp
02 January 2012
IT WAS TWO DAYS before Christmas and young Maggie Dotson was already being told that her Christmas wish would not be coming true. Paxton she was told, would not be coming back.
Husband and Wife by Abigail George
05 January 2012
\"Shut Up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Go to the old age home. You\'re old. You\'ve taken the best out of me and left me with nothing. I won\'t let you forget that.\"
Into the Black by Abigail George
15 January 2012
I am wearing ribbons in my hair. Today is my birthday and there are presents hidden with paper I can\'t wait to unwrap with trembling fingers. Children running around and screaming, kicking the legs of their chairs underneath the dining room table that is
Diary of an insomniac by Abigail George
29 January 2012
I want you to feel the cold like I do, weep like I do, make sense of the senseless world around you like I do. I want you to imagine the unbearable lightness, futility, looseness of things past holding you back, courage for the broken with the frame of mi
Running with Lithium by Abigail George
14 February 2012
Head made of stone sound the alarm for here hallucinations abound like driftwood, a gull sweeping through the sky overhead. In the photograph her skin is as dark as dry blood as she stands in her white dress. She is the virgin bride on the surface. Is she
Under World by Abigail George
21 February 2012
Of the brutality of my illness \'Iris\' is left in the corner. Love me up. Fill the void. Nothing, nothing ever seems to.
Death to the Wounded Self I-am by Abigail George
25 February 2012
I wonder if you will laugh out loud and hold your sides until your face aches and you bite down hard on your tongue and you begin to cry, not with sadness but with joy. Will you creep under the covers and read the last two pages (as I did) over and over
Excerpts from Alba's Diary by Abigail George
29 February 2012
Some people are doomed to follow the path of least resistance. It\'s in their blood. It feels like stone. It tastes like wine does. It doesn\'t matter if you\'re not happy, not attached, single, miserable, frustrated in the workplace, all that matters
The Incompleteness of Sylvia Plath by Abigail George
04 March 2012
\'In fact you\'re saying that I\'m about to \'dig my own grave\' again, so here goes.\' She said with a small, knowing smile. \'Shouting is your drug, Sylvia, not mine. You\'re just doing this to test my loyalty to you.\' He threw his hands up in despair.
Bittersweet Squalor by Abigail George
17 August 2012
There are men in this world and then there are women (it doesn\'t really matter what kind they are) and then there is me, the girl who has never completely grown up. There\'s something of an \'Alice in Wonderland\' or the better half of Peter Pan about me
Red Underwear by Aloysius-Gonzaga
16 January 2013
Udeani was sharpening his favourite machete when the DHL man\'s delivery motorcycle sounded across the brick fence. He abandoned the machete and took position near the centre of the gate which was closed and locked.
 
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