Caribbean Thoughts

by Carol Mitchell

Archive for Short Stories

Snag a Magazine Article

My August 2016 Novelspaces Post on building your author platform with magazine articles.


The Red Fire Truck

I performed this piece in Trinidad at the Bocas Lit Fest April 2015.


Maribelle’s Petard

Check out my story on Akashic Books’ Mondays are Murder series. This is not for the little ones … or for the faint of heart.

Maribelle’s Petard

Blood Rising

I submitted this short story for the National Caribbean American Heritage Month and it was chosen to be posted. The theme was: Losing and Rediscovering Caribbean Identity Abroad.


This is where it was posted. Also check out the poem by my long-time friend Nneka Edwards.

Here is the link to the actual story.

Calabash 2014

I have been interested in attending this literary event for many years. It seems like a wonderful meeting of like-minded individuals wanting to discuss, learn about, and promote Caribbean literature. Unfortunately I missed it once again, I seem to be getting all of the publicity about it after the fact, but I will put it on my calendar for 2016, and make every effort to make the trip.

Here are a couple of articles describing the just concluded event.

Jamaica’s Calabash Goes Globalishus

Jamaica Literary Festival Draws Top-Flight Authors

WORD! In New York this weekend


If you will be in New York this weekend, check out WORD! I will be speaking at 3 pm and I will have copies of books on hand. Hope to see you there. Read the rest of this entry »

Hiatus (of sorts)

Hi all, I haven’t stopped writing short stories. I am writing consistently but submitting my stories to various publications. As a result, I cannot post them here. Please be patient (I’m trying to be) and keep checking in. I will post links to stories whenever possible.


Knowing Face

Read “Knowing Face” in the December 2013 issue of the Cave Hill Literary Annual, Poui.

The Soup

Originally published in the April 2013 issue of the St. Somewhere online journal.

‘I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.’

As she stirred the soup, she imagined that she was hitting him with each turn of the spoon. She watched her hands move in the remnants of daylight seeped through the kitchen window. She was mesmerised by the dark lines that criss-crossed the back of her hands and wondered when those lines had appeared.

Read the rest of this entry »

The Third Day

Don’t try to hide, I know what you’re doing. Read the rest of this entry »