Glitches: A Collection of Short Stories
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Glitches - Rebekah Lattin-Rawstrone
Contents
Front Matter
Title Page
Publisher Information
Dedication
Acknowledgements
About The Author
Glitches
Carousel
Little Pig, Little Pig
She’ll Do Anything For You
The Last Button
Divine Precedent
Delicious Candy
Glitches
Back Matter
Also Available
Front Matter
Title Page
GLITCHES
A Collection of Short Stories
Rebekah Lattin-Rawstrone
Publisher Information
This digital edition published in 2014 by
Acorn Books
www.acornbooks.co.uk
An imprint of
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2014 Rebekah Lattin-Rawstrone
The right of Rebekah Lattin-Rawstrone to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Dedication
For Paul and Dan
Acknowledgements
‘Carousel’ was first published online by 3:AM Magazine, Sunday, October 21st, 2007
‘The Last Button’ was originally written in 2008 as part of the 1001 nights cast, a durational performance by Barbara Campbell. Writers had to create a story based on a prompt Barbara Campbell extracted from one of that day’s newspaper stories about events in the Middle East.
I would also like to thank Dan, Paul, Joseph, Paul Andrews, Charlotte, Heidi, Hester and Thea.
About The Author
Rebekah Lattin-Rawstrone lives and works in London. Her novel, Home (Red Button Publishing, 2014), is a dark, suspenseful story that poses questions about how we deal with the old and what it means to be forgotten.
Glitches
Carousel
In the dream there are three of them: a woman and two small children, a boy and a girl. They are carrying shopping bags, even the smallest child who has twisted the plastic over her shoulder like a sack. She makes exaggerated gestures of exhaustion. When the woman looks back at her, over her shoulder, and asks if she needs help, the little girl says she can manage. I can’t actually hear what they say, I just know, their voices seeming to speak directly to my mind. They certainly couldn’t be lifted on the wind. There is no wind. The hairs on their heads remain flat to their skulls, sweat creating an inner ring of dampness. It isn’t surprising. They have climbed to the top of a large cliff.
Behind them all I can see is blueness; not the sea - I am too far away from the edge to see the sea - but the sky. There are a few fluffy clouds stretched and distant, pitted like the blots of spray paint thinly applied. Where the cliff edge meets the sky, there is a fringe of yellow-green grass - dry and stubborn.
At this part of the dream, they are walking on the path, which is mostly a mud track, the odd piece of white chalk poking through soil. The path is littered with potholes, so the children’s legs lift high at the knees. It is not an easy walk. Luckily it has been dry - there are no puddles or pools of hardening mud, just dusty topsoil.
When they reach the top of the steepest incline, the woman pauses. The two children lag behind. She puts down her shopping and waits for them.
‘Come on, you two,’ she says.
The little boy gets there first. He puts down his bags and squats in the grass.
‘Mum, I’m thirsty,’ he says.
The woman doesn’t reply. She is looking out over the cliff. They are closer to the edge than me. I think she must be able to see the sea from where she stands.
The boy turns around to watch for his sister.
‘Come on, slow coach,’ he calls.
The little girl sighs dramatically. ‘I’m only little,’ she says. ‘You’ll have to wait.’
This makes me smile.
‘Don’t argue, you two,’ the woman says, turning her eyes from the sea.
Both mother