| Sarah won the Fish Historical-Crime Contest with "Fall River, August 1892", and has two stories in the "Fish" anthology 2008. She was a highly commended runner-up in the Biscuit Short Story Contest 2008. "MO: Crimes of Practice", the Crime Writers’ Association anthology, features Sarah's story, "One Last Pick-Up". Her work appears in Smokelong Quarterly, Literary Fever, Every Day Fiction, Ranfurly Review and Zygote in my Coffee. Sarah blogs at http://sarah-crawl-space.blogspot.com/ |
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| A Bright Burning The hibiscus was in full bloom, scarlet flowers trumpeting scent. Alice, 'Such a complexion!' was seated by her hostess, in the shade. Alice was young but not so young as to be assured of success. At the hill station half a mile away, half-caste girls of twelve years, sloe-eyed and slender-hipped, found husbands. Incense wove its woody trail from the temple where they prayed, sweet smell of burning on the breeze. At the horizon a fierce sun sent back striped legions of light. White roses on the verandah, petals like wax. Alice folded her hands precisely in her lap. A sovereign-chink of spurs behind her. 'Here come the gentlemen. Smile, my dear.' He wore the livery of an officer, yellow buttons glaring like the sun. Twenty-eight days passed. He took her hunting at night. The moon was eerie, waxen as the roses. Alice sat on an elephant, a great height above the hunt. In the white light, everything was unreal, the men moving as ghosts below her. Rifle fire, pukka-pukka, scared the moths up into the trees. Two of the men laid the tiger in her lap. Its fur was gleaming still, with the fiery polish of copper and onyx. Alice drew off a glove and laid her hand on its flank. Under her, the elephant stirred. The hunting party was shouting, scuffing up sand. Alice met the eyes of her lover. He was flushed, triumphant. She stroked the fine fur under her fingers as it chilled and grew stiff. Another month passed. Her husband sat smoking on the verandah of their new home, a little heap of ash at his feet, mimosa in a fragile fluted glass by his side. Alice lay on the striped rug in the bedroom, seeing herself in the glassy eye of the big cat. Later, alone in the house, she would fit her throat between the frozen jaws to feel the thin sting of incisors, and listen for the purr of the tiger inside her skin. |
| Sarah Hilary |
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