James Grant
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Stories (5)
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The Blue Balloon
That evening, Mrs Tip left the nest. She stood on the furthest twig. Her taupe speckled wings were plucked and fluffed and flattened. The art was practised: that of a dolphin – diving first downwards, and then upwards with the full, uncluttered aid of the autumn air. Antoinette watched her mother with admiration. Those two maternal wings, practised in their knack of manoeuvring between cedar branches, mastered the highest altitudes of the trees. Then, onto the sky, and its flattened clouds backlit by an orange horizon. As she watched her mother’s silhouette shrink into the distance, Antoinette could feel the gap between the two of them, turning from space into something only her heart could sense.
By James Grant4 years ago in Fiction
Eye to Eye
Well, my love, it was the view from the west wing. I looked from the window, a storey above you, and saw your body reposed there on the sofa. Then, you looked up at me, and during that interlude where my pupils gathered your components together like a dustpan, we made history.
By James Grant4 years ago in Fiction
Marguerite
A word meaning more than beautiful does not exist in English without sounding odd. Gorgeous is too unripe. Stunning is too candid. Instead, we seem to talk about how a certain beauty makes us feel. If I were in love with her, I would have been infatuated. But I was not. I wanted a word with more flesh, that went beyond the flesh. So, every time I used beautiful to describe you – I meant that word which does not exist.
By James Grant4 years ago in Fiction
