For the short story reader. Updated every Monday.

The Short Form


Siân Melangell Dafydd


Losing his left eye came about because of a pole vault stick in 1962, he told me. We were at a family party at the White Lion, the one where he tried to free the Gwyniad fish which were pickled and on show there. Sitting on a bar stool he calmly said that he had felt rapture and rage, back then, when the pole vault had him in the eye, and the pain, he said, was fantastic. He showed me how he could look at everyone at once now that one eye was glass. Dad had beer in his moustache, a boy outside had dropped his ice cream, there was a red car, a blue one, a silver one; and while he could see all of that, he was looking at me with a still eye.

I pulled my tongue at him. ‘But you’re not really looking at me,’ I said. He couldn’t see me, of course. I did it again. I saw myself in the reflection of his lifeless eye. He made me feel cherished, adored, even if I knew he didn’t mean to be so attentive. He couldn’t help it, gazing at me like that. And I told him I hated sports.

We read it in The White Review.