Barry Lee Thompson

short story

  • Maskers

    He detected for the first time a delicate perfume, hers, a hint of white flowers, and something else, something suggesting softness and marshmallow, and then it was gone, absorbed in the incense burning from another part of the building.

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  • THE GHOSTS

    It’s a squarish room, plain by day, and nothing to speak of. But after dark, when the lamps are lit and the candles positioned, the room takes on an inviting glow, and were you to walk inside from the chill of a wintry evening, throwing off your coat and rubbing your hands together, you’d think

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  • Interrupter on the wireless

    “And then lunch, and your winter desserts. Hot custard over steamed puddings. Home-baked. You never used much sugar. Bad for the teeth. And then Mummy’s comments. She always had something to say. ‘It could use a little more sugar, this dessert,’ and you’d tell her that maybe she could make dessert the next time. And

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  • The Cat Mesmerist, from Roomers #63

    “And the friend will ask what comes next now that the animal is held in place, is transfixed and bound by a strange spell. Kesh will say that the magic (and he’ll say this word shyly, because he still feels a little modest in this regard) only goes so far, only goes as far as

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  • Chumi Falls Out | Tincture Journal, Issue Twenty

    “He went out for a walk. There was a group of ducks on the river, near the wetlands. One of the ducks swam towards him. He told it to fuck off, and it moved away. He sat on the edge of the river with his legs drawn up, hugging his knees. It was a warm

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