Short Stories

Dad owned a pub in the Barossa Valley called the Southern Cross. The scent of cigars and pipes mingled with the perfume women wore, created a sweet, pungent smell. I was only ten years old then but I remember everything real good. My Dad was six-foot and came from a big Scottish family. He had…

They’ll be here soon. Young Somali men hired by gangs in Mogadishu to kill for ivory. Tonight they will walk along this leaf-littered path. Their rifles cradled like babies in their arms and machetes strapped to their legs. They will talk of the money they will earn from the ivory, the food they will eat…