Short Stories

My stories have featured in the UK and in the USA. As members of a maligned genre they cluster together on my website for solidarity and comfort.

They hope one day to be misconstrued as a novel, a Jennifer Egan style, ‘Goon Squad’ arrangement.


     After the sudden clanging noise Harley begs the night to subside. Nothing doing. A light flicks on in the Goldstein living room and the door to the deck rumbles on its tracks. 
     Candy Goldstein’s voice breaks into the night, ‘Hey, who’s there?’ 

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     I’m taking a stroll before the sun goes down and our Passover guests arrive. I stop and lean on the railing by the sea cliffs. Warning signs, black on yellow, show a tiny figure tilting off a high edge, arms clutching at space. Way below, jagged triangles and crests suggest rocks and surf.

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     Walter Bronsky kicked in his half sleep before opening one eyelid. The ochre skin of his little tent drew him towards the dim-dawning day. He sat up in his sleeping bag, cast around and groaned – he could make out the cash desk, display racks, ceiling fans.

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He lay on the road under the lights, green, orange, red, green, orange, his cheek on the warm 
tarmac, his limbs hinged at weird angles, akin to the shop attendant showing the mannequin 
who is in charge.  
     Pain coursed through him and he sensed a shifting. 

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