Short Stories

I am a guardian of rubbish. In my white tracksuit, I cycle alone along the streets of Amsterdam and collect the trash that litters this city. With my cargo bicycle full of garbage, I wave at passing nightwalkers that fill the pockets of silence. They pause mid-stride for too long under dim street lights without responding. Why do they wait for me to ride past them? I catch a glimpse of their shadows darting into the darkness over my accumulating junk pile that continues to grow. Now I am unsure if those creepers were ever there at all. It is my duty to keep these streets clean. A pungent smell persistently follows me around town, keeping me company. I know someone is supposed to take over my shift soon because leachate has saturated my clothes. I make my way to the designated spot by the shuttered flower shop and look up at the stars, waiting. After a time, the air becomes too thin to breathe in. My skin feels tight and rubbery. Whooshing sounds of the ocean start to choke my ears. It

A rusty white swing hovers over the grass in nanna’s backyard. The ornate wrought-iron shadow remains still and silent in her garden full of geraniums. Our young bodies are too small for outside labour, so we wander to the shade house and wait. But not for long. We drink from the sprinklers that water the fuchsias and squeeze the buds until they pop open.  We take turns opening the creaky door to the grey shed, peering inside to see if a secret portal has opened up for us to escape. Black spiders live in here with the Blood & Bone fertiliser and antique furniture. Our dad’s abandoned youth lives here, too, discarded and mouldy. The musty smell lingers as the sun sets outside and time rests.  As the three of us walk single file along the pavement, ticking echoes from the wooden clock atop nanna's empty fireplace welcome us back into a cold house. We all think this place is haunted. Old newspapers are stacked high in the corners of rooms. Lace coat hangers full of potpourri sit q