Baby Shoes

Baby Shoes

A.S. Patrić There are nights when my wife moans like a dog. There’s no story in that, the Yankee tells me, so he ignores it. He asks again about the baby shoes hanging from a nail on the wall. I like this black iron nail hammered through the concrete. You must have...
The Instrument

The Instrument

A.S. Patrić This story has been buried for a long time. Years have gone by, but I know it occasionally writhes six feet under, and I’m sure I’ve boxed something that wants to breathe. This is how it begins: Shubert Wilkes walks along Mitford Street. He’s crossing from...
The Sea of Tranquillity

The Sea of Tranquillity

A.S. Patrić The library in St Albans was what you might expect to find in the Western Suburbs of Melbourne. Dreary. Limited hours. One and a half rooms and a three book limit. The librarians weren’t particularly helpful. They stamped the little slip inside the front...
Poetry of the Mother Tongue

Poetry of the Mother Tongue

A.S. Patrić I was born in Belgrade, Serbia; in a part of the city called Zemun—right at the confluence of the rivers Danube and Sava. There was one small room for the three of us to sleep in. My mother, father and I watched the world turn white. Winter got through the...
Necessity

Necessity

A.S. Patrić Almost everyone in the room was a writer. All were masquerading as nothing more assuming than avid readers, eager to hear David Malouf read from a new collection of stories. I don’t remember which piece he read, but I recall being bored. That calm voice...