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Crowd Surfing
Coles
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Crowd Surfing in Ottawa, ON
By None
Current price: $5.99


By None
Crowd Surfing in Ottawa, ON
Current price: $5.99
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Size: Kobo eBook
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Forty-one engaging and clever short stories feature in this latest anthology from Stringybark Stories. Selected from over 290 entries these winning and highly commended tales are wickedly intriguing, thought-provoking, sometimes sad, sometimes funny, but always a rollicking read.
Marco meandered through the checkered picnic blankets in the park, trying not to step on their owners. Plates of potato salad and coleslaw threatened to trip him up. The tasty smell of sausages tickled his nostrils. A trio of vanilla ice cream cones precariously balanced in his hands dripped down his hands in a sweet, sticky mess. He presented them awkwardly as if returning from an exploratory voyage.
"Um, they melted," he said shyly, stating the obvious.
Two petite blondes smiled and laughed in appreciation.
— From "A New Name for Marco" by Fiona Wannenmacher
The park was strangely empty for a Sunday arvo except in the corner next to the playground lay an abandoned mountain bike. I limped closer with my right leg protesting each step and a snotty girl in a pink tutu jumped up, pointed an accusing finger and screamed, "Mum, the smelly man is trying to steal your bike again!" I lurched away to avoid the mummy's abuse and headed for the cemetery at the other side of the park.
— From "Another Bike" by Terence Phillips
He really didn't want to be here, sitting in my office that hot afternoon, dust clouds forming out in the distance on the plain.
"My wife says I've got a problem with anger," he had stated evenly, ambivalence dripping from every word he spoke.
— From "Angry" by Andrew Heath
Forty-one engaging and clever short stories feature in this latest anthology from Stringybark Stories. Selected from over 290 entries these winning and highly commended tales are wickedly intriguing, thought-provoking, sometimes sad, sometimes funny, but always a rollicking read.
Marco meandered through the checkered picnic blankets in the park, trying not to step on their owners. Plates of potato salad and coleslaw threatened to trip him up. The tasty smell of sausages tickled his nostrils. A trio of vanilla ice cream cones precariously balanced in his hands dripped down his hands in a sweet, sticky mess. He presented them awkwardly as if returning from an exploratory voyage.
"Um, they melted," he said shyly, stating the obvious.
Two petite blondes smiled and laughed in appreciation.
— From "A New Name for Marco" by Fiona Wannenmacher
The park was strangely empty for a Sunday arvo except in the corner next to the playground lay an abandoned mountain bike. I limped closer with my right leg protesting each step and a snotty girl in a pink tutu jumped up, pointed an accusing finger and screamed, "Mum, the smelly man is trying to steal your bike again!" I lurched away to avoid the mummy's abuse and headed for the cemetery at the other side of the park.
— From "Another Bike" by Terence Phillips
He really didn't want to be here, sitting in my office that hot afternoon, dust clouds forming out in the distance on the plain.
"My wife says I've got a problem with anger," he had stated evenly, ambivalence dripping from every word he spoke.
— From "Angry" by Andrew Heath

















