The phone started up again. One…Two…Three rings. Not another conversation. His throat was dry. His ear felt like it was pressed flat against his skull. Four…Five.
The still humid air, the sweat dripping down his back, the thought of standing up was painful. Nine-thirty. Through the open windows he heard the idle chattering from Market Square where couples walked in slow-motion under the glittering streetlamps. Six…Seven, screeching now. The teletype machines joined in, clattering bulletins from London and Paris.
His notebook was full of shorthand transcripts of phone conversations. It had been one of those ‘nothing-is-ready-days’, panic to deadline, reporters lost in traffic. But they had managed to put the late edition to bed.
Richard Stanford, "When I’m not writing short stories and essays or producing documentary films in Montréal, I can be found mucking about in my gardens trying to create the perfect eggplant."
Ovi eBooks Publishing January 2026
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