tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-312618552011-07-17T09:46:27.793+02:00A collection of stories by Sylvia Petter that have been published on the web from 1995 to date.Merchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011150737394796331noreply@blogger.comBlogger171100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31261855.post-62833917208005053122009-04-08T10:51:00.003+02:002010-02-02T05:49:06.473+01:00

These stories represent different stages in my writing life. They were published on the web, some also in print, since about 1995. Some websites have died, many are still around. I'd like to mention them, and some of the print mags which tried to stay afloat, in no particular order, to thank people ready to take risks in their labours of love for writing and writers.Mystery and Manners

Merchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011150737394796331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31261855.post-66417446603146075062009-04-08T10:43:00.003+02:002009-04-08T10:46:35.007+02:00

"An Imaginary Friend" can now be viewed at Scribd.It was first published in THEMA in 1997 and included in my collection, The Past Present.

Merchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011150737394796331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31261855.post-1153739826159637332006-07-24T13:15:00.000+02:002006-07-24T13:18:27.230+02:00

"No! Not again," I growled, waiting in the sunset for my husband to come home.About a year ago, just after the last snow had melted, my husband started disappearing every second Saturday. With the start of daylight saving on 22 June, he would not arrive home before half past ten on Thursday nights as well. And thus it went until the end of September, with the Saturday ritual ending in an early

Merchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011150737394796331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31261855.post-1153739608291186332006-07-24T13:10:00.000+02:002006-07-24T13:28:05.880+02:00

Frank Brennan left a message on his answering machine. 'This is Dr Brennan. I'll be away for a couple of days. In case of emergency, please call Dr Flint, my replacement.' Frank played back the message and locked up the surgery last thing Wednesday night. Dropping the keys into his pocket, he thought: 'This time I'll do it.' Maggie had almost finished packing - just his clubs and his baby-blue

Merchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011150737394796331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31261855.post-1153289181606447802006-07-19T08:06:00.003+02:002010-02-02T05:44:07.141+01:00

Forthcoming in 100 Stories for Haiti.

Merchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011150737394796331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31261855.post-1153289194193415052006-07-19T08:06:00.001+02:002006-07-21T14:56:59.296+02:00

"Come out in the garden. I'll show you how it's done. A wonderful sport." I suppressed a smile as my father reeled my husband in to his favourite game - golf. "The clubs are in the garage. Just a tick. I know there aren't many courses out your way. But once you're hooked, you'll find a place to play," he said. Jim grinned over to me and shrugged: Why not? No harm in having a go. "You'd be

Merchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011150737394796331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31261855.post-1153289160032597072006-07-19T08:05:00.000+02:002006-07-21T15:57:03.236+02:00

Tall, dark and handsome Dave MacLaren had 485 under his belt. He stared down from the balcony at the acrylic daubs of Aboriginal art covering a whole wall in Melbourne's Victoria Art Gallery. He had to get away. On the set they'd been whispering every time he passed; they'd stopped whenever he got closer. The vibes were driving him crazy. Different hues of bark and ochre dots darted at him,

Merchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011150737394796331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31261855.post-1153168908148940392006-07-17T22:41:00.001+02:002007-04-06T12:38:18.328+02:00

Ruth had tried not to laugh that day when Anna was sixteen. It would have been fatal since her mouth had been full of pins as she worked on the velvet patchwork bell bottoms for which her grand daughter had begged. “I shall never get married,” Anna had said. “I shall have lovers. But I shall not marry!” Slowly Ruth took each pin from her lips. “You may change your mind. “Never” is one of

Merchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011150737394796331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31261855.post-1153168890792902492006-07-17T22:41:00.000+02:002006-07-21T09:54:39.033+02:00

Hi! My name's Toulouse. No, not the town in France - one of the aristocats! We were in the SPA, minding our own business with our Mom, Duchesse, when the woman that fed us - we'd just been dragged away from Mom's milk a couple of days before, but we still liked to try for more - where was I ...?. Oh yeah, the woman that fed us - wasn't bad, kinda crunchy for our small teeth - anyway, she was

Merchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011150737394796331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31261855.post-1153168760500888622006-07-17T22:39:00.000+02:002006-07-20T10:48:13.046+02:00

Hi, I'm the apple. No! Not that Apple - they don't grow on trees, do they? I'm the apple of Tell, you know, Bill, Wilhelm.Well, there I was, minding my own business up in my tree by the market place, getting plump and red in the sun. That rotten old Sheriff Gessler was throwing his weight around as usual. He'd been sent by the Hapsburgs to keep the good people of Altdorf in line. He was a bighead

Merchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011150737394796331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31261855.post-1153168739817042022006-07-17T22:38:00.000+02:002006-07-21T09:57:54.900+02:00

Samantha went to the Kärtner Café every afternoon of the next week. It hadn't rained for days. On Friday, she sat in her usual place, opened her notebook and stared at passers by. When the waitress brought her coffee, she had only written the date. Her words had dried up as if her eyes had sapped their energy searching for Fritz.It was getting dark as she left the cafe for her hotel room. As

Merchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011150737394796331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31261855.post-1153168561718980402006-07-17T22:35:00.002+02:002006-07-21T18:48:27.406+02:00

In my ear. ‘La puce à l’oreille.’ It’s a buzz. A flea. A fleet. A fleeting. Les Puces. Paris. An antique stepchair to my library. I’m short, you see. I can’t reach the grand books that are over the top. Would they were ZZ. Bottom shelf. Reachable. But even ZZ is beyond my grasp. Hey, she even made it onto the cover of Poets & Writers, or was it the Best of New Yorker Magazine? Priscilla, was

Merchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011150737394796331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31261855.post-1153168524342977162006-07-17T22:35:00.000+02:002006-07-21T10:00:34.243+02:00

Under the rigid gaze of the giant bronze head mounted on its granite block, workers crissed their morning trails like ants across the square.Samantha Freeman alighted from the red and yellow tram that brought her from her rented rooms on the outskirts of the city and fell in step with them towards the Straße der Nationen. It was 7h15 on a bright day in August, her first at Transinter, the State

Merchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011150737394796331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31261855.post-1153168423426812182006-07-17T22:33:00.000+02:002006-07-21T10:01:06.130+02:00

I remember when we buried Dad in the back yard. I grated a trough around the tall stump of the liquid amber Mum managed to poison before it fell down on the house in one of those electric storms we get every year. Mum stood wiping her hands on her apron. Watched me. Said nothing. I’d asked her to wait till I got there. I’d asked him, too, but bloody minded as he’d always been – I’m the one to

Merchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011150737394796331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31261855.post-1153168315075981722006-07-17T22:31:00.000+02:002006-07-21T10:01:34.270+02:00

The crisp white window envelope sat on top of the pile. Sarah knew what was in it. "Bills first", she said, dropping her hessian carry bag onto the floor. She flopped down on the kitchen chair and kicked off her shoes. She released her shock of red hair from its restraining temple combs and began to sift through the pile of mail and ads. Sarah tried to ignore the envelope from the

Merchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011150737394796331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31261855.post-1153168114405041002006-07-17T22:28:00.001+02:002006-07-21T10:02:45.430+02:00

It was 1969, the year of the man on the moon. When Samantha had left Australia she'd winked at him not knowing that before the year was out he would not be alone - not knowing that she would be very much so. She thought of Jake. She missed him. It wasn't that his absence left a hole; it was just that there was so much more when he was there. Samantha stared out of the train window as the

Merchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011150737394796331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31261855.post-1153168096561307432006-07-17T22:28:00.000+02:002007-04-06T12:40:33.525+02:00

Maybe having slept in Dorothy Parker's bed had something to do with my understanding of Zen. "Did you know that Hemingway called her Dotty?" My colleague, Klaus, said. I shook my head.Our company in Berlin had sent us to a conference in Minneapolis. I'd stopped over in New York the week before and had been earbashing Klaus about the high point of my detour - the Algonquin. Klaus was nice: tall,

Merchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011150737394796331noreply@blogger.com0