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Short story: <i>Billy's Girl</i>



Weasel stood at the bar. His nose pointed to a mean tip like the end of a switchblade, and his eyes had a natural narrowness about them like he had a perpetual cigarette jammed in his mouth and the smoke kept smarting at his eyes.

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Short story: <i>Happily Ever After</i>



“Cinderella,” Tess Darcy spat, “Is possibly the stupidest story in the world.”

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Día del Patria


The whole school... with Kaleb hiding out on the left up the back.

The 14th of September is a big deal here in Nicaragua - so big, in fact, that the street we live in is named after it. It's Nicaraguan independence day or some such the like, so that means that in the lead up there's a lot of flag waving and performances and other excitingly patriotic occurrences.

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Short story: <i>The Phonecall</i>



It’s getting dark. I’ve probably been sitting here now for a couple of hours and I don’t think that I can move because the idea of getting up and getting out means that I would have to figure out what to do next and I just don’t think I can do that.

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Short story: <i>The Village Store</i>



- Oh my god... Harry? Help me, somebody DO something, somebody HELP me PLEASE, HAROLD, NO!

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Short story: <i>Where's Laura?</i>



She’s calling me. I can hear her, like a bell. I know that people talk of bells tolling and voices being clear as a bell, and it’s something of a cliché, but I can hear her voice like a bell because that’s how it sounds when she laughs.

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Short story: <i>Big Night Out</i>



Monty sat on his bar stool and twiddled dejectedly with the toothpick he’d plucked from the dispenser earlier.

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Hípico


Taking a well earned rest

But, of course, this is Nicaragua we’re talking about, celebrator of the virgin, and she certainly hadn’t yet been sufficiently celebrated. So we all had a public holiday on Wednesday the 15th, and then on Saturday night there was a whole lot of excited firecrackers going off all over the show from the various churches continuously for over an hour.

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Short story: <i>Bondi Rescue</i>



The man paused at the top of the stairs leading down through the grassy slopes to the promenade. He gazed out at the water, sparkling and dancing in the early afternoon sunlight.

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Short story: <i>Envy in Life and Art</i>



It was a collection of beautiful people, luscious people, dynamic people, mysterious people, thin people, poised people.

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Short story: <i>The almighty embarrassment</i>



No. 4, Everywhere st, August 1.

"Breakfast!" Tiff stood at the kitchen sink, wearing a demure floral print sun-dress that came in at the waist and dropped to just below the knee. Wearing light pink slip on sandals that were both comfortable and complimented her outfit.

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Short story: <i>Weatherman</i>



Okay guys, we have a situation here. I think it's a fairly major situation, but I can't actually be sure because I never really paid attention when they were explaining how all this shit works. And why should I have? It's not like I want to be here or anything.

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Correos del toros... I think.



For those who got a teensy bit close to the bull horns...

Saturday and Sunday the 11th and 12th of August were the first of the weekends for “Hípico”—the names confuse me. This is ALWAYS the 15th of August, however because this August it fell on a Wednesday, the powers that be decreed that not only should everyone have the day off on August 15th, but there would also be parades, parties, fun in the streets and general merriment on both of the weekends surrounding the 15th. These Nicaraguans, they know how to do a public holdiay with style.

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Short story: <i>Wild Jungle Pig</i>



Reg and his wife Missy were lost. Very lost. Hopelessly lost. And Reg, for one, was pretty unhappy about it.

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Short story: <i>Emergency</i>



The doors thudded open again, and some new bloodsoaked and deflated excuse for a human being shot screaming on a stretcher into the hall, surrounded by what looked like overgrown kids in jumpsuits playing doctor.

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Short story: <i>Old Tom's Trailer</i>



I was out in the desert again, looking for flying saucers and gold dust, leastways that's what I told old Tom when I crossed the mangled piece of barbed wire that serves as a boundary line between his place and everywhere else.

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Short story: <i>Monday morning</i>



Eliza sat demurely at her workstation, waiting for the digital clock in front of her to flick its ugly grey numbers over to read 8:30.

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Short story: <i>Friday night</i>



It's a jungle out there.

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