Showing results by narrator "Roshina Ratnam" in All Categories

Perfect for fans of Gillian Flynn and Roald Dahl, these stories are guaranteed to get under your skin. Diverse, dark-humored, and deliciously bite-sized: J. T. Lawrence doesn't disappoint with this brand-new collection of unsettling short stories.

Daiki finds a flash drive in his office, which leads him to a truth he is not ready to hear.

“Maybe,” says Margaret, “when you see this place you’ll understand. It’s like Club Med! There’s a heated pool and a rec centre and a cocktail bar and everything. They have 24-hour room service!” Andrew guffaws. “A cocktail bar? At a nursing home? What’s next? Happy Hour?”

A man makes a horrific discovery in the crim colony silo he's imprisoned in.

The groomer shook her head, her stubborn silence adding fuel to my fury. She glanced at the dog as if he would back her up in some way, but I could tell he was beginning to get the idea. He was starting to understand that, despite his excellent breeding, he currently looked like a mangey pavement special. I wondered if I should get him a cone for his neck so that he wouldn't have to witness this new, burning humiliation.

A man knows he deserves to be haunted for what he has done; he just didn't expect it to happen this way.

“There’s the drive back home, invariably in the dark. Not safe.” “She has plenty of space. We could have just stayed over.” Linda shook her head. “No. Not allowed. Against the rules.” “What do you mean?” Andrew took off his glasses and frowned at her. “Hodgey was always begging us to stay the night. I’ve never understood - " Linda drummed her fingers on her knees.“It’s just a thing, okay? An agreement.” Andrew’s furrows deepened. “Between you and Hodge?” “Between Peter and I. We sibling-swore.”

Red Riding Hood, retold by the (fictional) AI Millenniarellabot after being fed fairy tales and texts on euthanasia.

The last thing I remember is Lorin’s scream as my roadster smashes into the guardrails and flips into the air. There was Lorin’s terrible wail, and then being silently airborne. Then there was nothing. Later, some bright lights shone through - hospital ceilings, I guess - and doctors' terse commands. I piece together the clues I overhear. The crash, the rocks, the fire. Agony like I've never experienced before burns my every organ and bone. Pipes and palpations. Needles, catheters, and a heart monitor that sounds like a ticking time bomb.

We pulled into a makeshift parking lot in the middle of a huge herd of sheep. There were two or three cars, but not a cave or another person in sight. We watched the sheep for a while, not sure what to do, when we saw people walk past us, making their way up the hill. That’s when we realized that we would be working hard for our little bit of fertility magic: We had to hike to get to the cave.

Betty arrives at work slippery with sweat. She has no option but to run to her grind at Propag8 now that the taxi drivers are trying to kill her. She bought an electric car, but they keep trying to booby-trap it. Every time she puts her thumb on the ignition switch, she closes her eyes and waits for the explosion. Every time the car starts without blowing up, she knows it's just a matter of time. That she has bought one more day. That they are watching her, waiting for the perfect time to detonate her life.

Welcome to the lesser-known country of The Kingdom of Moldavia, known for its overgrown jungles, giant pineapples, venomous bronze-fanged adders, and the finest butterfly silk in the world. It’s home to tigers so ferocious and so vain that the only way to survive an attack is to dangle your pocket mirror in front of their trembling fish-gut whiskers. It’s a place where firebugs will put on a pyrotechnic show for you and, while you are watching, the satin-smooth hands of vervet monkeys will swipe your wallet.

The priest turned his back on the old man so he wouldn’t notice if his fingers shook while pouring. He would have poured himself a drink before the impromptu meeting, to steady his nerves, but he knew he’d be driving that night, so he had reluctantly abstained. When he sat down, a sigh escaped the priest’s lips. “I assume you know why I asked to see you,” said the bishop, his long wiry eyebrows knitting in an accusing way. His raptorial eyes were unblinking. “Yes, Your Excellency,” Father Sanderson said. “It is unfortunate”.

They stride over the broken paving of the sidewalk, stepping over tree roots and potholes. Susman trips over the nub of a tree stump, and De Villiers catches her hand without thinking. She regains her balance and snatches it back. “Sorry,” he says. She thanks him in an annoyed way, and plunges her hands back into her pockets and they keep walking.

By the time I realized I’d missed a couple of periods and my breasts were tender, it was too late. The black dread bloomed in my stomach, eroding my appetite and my sleep. I thought about killing myself. If I killed myself, no one would find out what had happened. If I took my life, I wouldn't have to harbor the parasite growing inside my body. The only thing that stopped me from slitting my wrists was the knowledge that my mom and dad would be prosecuted. The State didn’t take kindly to people committing suicide.

Ex-detective Robin Susman arrives in Johannesburg feeling resentful and tired after the drive. She's getting older; the journey is getting harder. She rubs her knees. Since when did driving make her knees ache? She spends a moment feeling powerless against the relentless surge of time; a torpedo with miniature grapple hooks that pull at your skin, hair, muscles, bones, psyche. What is the point? she wonders, as she takes in the visage of the smoky grey city. What is the point of anything?

A soldier fighting from the trenches in France in 1916 writes letters to his love. If you're a fan of historical fiction, you might enjoy this wartime epistolary romance.

Junichuro Matsumato is a handsome 42-year-old man: dark-haired, wealthy, and devastated. He stares forlornly at the small glass buddha statue illuminated by the blue LED light behind it. There are thousands of the buddhas behind the glowing panes of glass, five hundred per wall. For easy identification, the light behind his wife’s buddha glows a different hue as he swipes his card to enter.

It wasn't about revenge; it was about love, and justice. When I heard about what Mariya Oktyabrskaya did, I realized what was required of me. I was only 23, but my destiny was clear. I had never met Oktyabrskaya, but I knew all about her. She was a heroine, a zavodila, and her mission was tattooed on my heart.

“No one will suspect a young girl like you of being a resistance fighter,” Erica said the day she had arrived to recruit Frankie. “You’ll be able to make a real difference.” Frankie’s mother had reluctantly agreed. "What is required of you won't be easy," warned Erica. "You'll hate yourself if you do it."