Come The Tide is the debut collection of short stories from Sam Reese and is published by Platypus Press. The collection has received universal praise and acclaim; fellow writer Pradba Yoon claims that "stories like these can make existence feel convincing, and creatio...

This country is too flat, she tells me. Maybe it’s because of all the people—like they’ve trampled out all the interesting dips and curves. Maybe it’s the weather. The weight of all that gloom. She has a point; when you’re used to mountains, meadows look depressed.

...

Into your loneliness

we place our voices,

hoping our words

might comfort your wounded heart.

We do not mean

to remind you

of all you have lost

by extolling the manifold virtues

of your husband

now gone, but we are foolish

in the face of grief,

never knowing whether

to share our ow...

Stepping out onto the veranda, Zina opens her mouth to the wind, her lips pursing like the surrounding Zhiguli mountains, her eyes closing with gentle surrender. The dusty remains of dry clumps of grain still cling to the palms of her hands...

She Rinsed

the breakfast dishes

as her children were leaving,

they left two moist goodbye-kisses

on her cheek. She plunged her hands into hot water,

awakening a thousand little scars. Now, the bed sheets were clean.

She was surrounded by all types of water, not blue skin...

What have those watery globes

in industrial goggles seen?

Frozen lakes, dance halls, unexpected

Goodbyes, I’m sure.

Locked vaults of anaesthetic and no

combination. You’ve trapped me in those unbroken

codes.

I know you want to forget,

but every mispronunciation

reminds me of wh...

Bed’s creaking.

He’s up.

Why are you still up?

He’s down.

Downstairs

Why do you feel so down?

-

Don’t you have work in the morning?

-

Clink clink.

Guts pour down.                                       TV blares....

Blindness has an unfortunate way of announcing itself. It rarely goes unnoticed. Its presence is often made certain through the uncertain, waving radius of a black stick. Sometimes, there’s sunglasses too. Though, Alfred hated those. He thought they sucked all the sens...

For the longest evening, we have nothing.

The lorry is delayed, and we squat in an

unfurnished box, pine-smelling and so clean

it hurts the eyes to look. We are waiting

to hear the growl of our possessions rolling

into the gravel drive, but it’s silent here

and there’s nothi...

Remember. I remember. dark words, deep roots in the ground, the earth, rising, oh how it is rises. Out of the dirt, growing, grappling up around the trunk. A weed, a weakness never mended, a hole never filled, a gap left exposed. Vacant. Expression…less than before, I...