Stories by
Deborah Walker

New scribe, recording a great triumph. His words are flawed, and he cleans the clay, wishing he could erase the cuneiform of his memory.

Deborah Walker thinks: least said, soonest mended.

My son is not here. I thought that he’d forgive me. The eulogy falters as the cold, shadow breath of my regrets fill the lonely church.

Deborah Walker can often be found in the British Museum nicking ideas from ancient cultures.