Monday, April 9, 2012

Check out my short story, Shanti, at
A excerpt below

I met Stephanie, the new arts teacher, the week after I saw Caroline on the plane to England.
"I'd like someone's help to hang my paintings?" Stephanie said at morning recess after everyone had introduced themselves.
"I'll give you a hand," I said, attracted by her vivacious pixie face framed by short dark hair so different to Caroline's cool blondeness. We made a date that evening.
 Stephanie's eyes lit up. "Thank you. Come for dinner."
Nigel, the manual arts teacher, a gangling one hundred and ninety centimetres, leered at us in his usual inane way.
I knew what he thought. Caroline has been gone a week and you're already on to another.
Stephanie's front door was open when I arrived at her unit on the second floor of a three-story block of flats. Receiving no answer to my knock and call, I went in.
She sat on the mat in the living area wearing a pale blue sari, edged with silver and red trimmings, staring through me as if in some subliminal trance.
I went outside and lit a cigarette, wondering whether I should go home. I’d finished my second cigarette when she came out.
“Oh, there you are. Do you want to hang the paintings before or after dinner?” 
lighthearted fantasy.

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