Tainted by Iris N. Schwartz

Harriette wasn’t crazy about being admitted to the psych ward of Gut Gezunt* Hospital.

She’d be found out for the lesser Jew she was.

Fridays, when she couldn’t obtain a Shabbos goy** to turn on or shut off the lights, she did it stealthily herself.

She not only didn’t keep kosher but tore from the bone freshly fried pork, greedily devoured this treif***, and let illicit juices escape down chin and neck — onto a blouse relegated to a corner of the bedroom. When roommates were elsewhere Harriette would throw stained clothing into the incinerator, no questions asked. Except of herself. And maybe one day a rabbi. Continue reading “Tainted by Iris N. Schwartz”

My wife, the cat by Anna Rivers

My wife turns into a cat sometimes when she thinks she is alone. She thinks I don’t know, but I do.

I’ll leave her washing up our breakfast things, shout a hearty, extravagant goodbye, get into the car and slam the door loudly, rev the engine so she knows I’m going, and roar off down the road. I’ll park round the corner and jog back in my suit and tie. It’s only worth doing this on days when she isn’t going in to work: she’s a part-time teaching assistant at the local primary, specialising in working with SEN kids, but two days out of five, plus weekends, she works from home as a freelance copy-editor. That’s when it happens. I suppose she must be bored. Continue reading “My wife, the cat by Anna Rivers”

The Great British Break-Off by Jake Kendall

Derek Pryce hated the cold.

He pulled his thick, double-hooded coat tight as the angry wind and lacerating rain pelted his back. The constant thudding of the torrid weather and the sheer misery of it all drowned out the self-preserving voice of reason that tried its best to warn him: turn back; you shouldn’t be out here.

He forced himself forward, slowly, cautiously. The footpath wet and treacherous. Continue reading “The Great British Break-Off by Jake Kendall”

Plato’s Never Heard of Us by Lorenza Shabe

“Do you remember-”

“Probably not.” A veiny, wrinkled hand smacks a veiny, wrinkled forearm, causing the speaker to cackle at his friend’s expense. His eyes crinkle further, eyes turning into small crescent moons, crows-feet becoming more pronounced.

“Shut up, you. I’m trying to be sentimental.” His friend adjusts her glasses, puffing out little bursts of air to show her disapproval. She tightens the shawl around her. He knew he’d never stop being in awe of her, even after all these years, so he just smiles and motions for her to continue. Continue reading “Plato’s Never Heard of Us by Lorenza Shabe”