As Travis crosses East Hastings Street, he hears the high trembly voice of Sasha Asputi. She’s trilling a speech, waving her skinny arms in the air in the centre of a small circle of men and their shopping carts, “Tonight we homeless will take back our rightful space.”
Continue reading “The Wheelbarrow Man of East Hastings Street by Harrison Kim”
Aachen’s charred ruins lay shrouded in mist. Skeletal remains of churches and chapels jutted out like jagged teeth against the winter skies. Light snow swirled, mingling with ash from distant smouldering fires.
Vacation Bible school came and went. Proverbs learned and unlearned, a paper badge, and the Lord. Then came our family camping trip. Please, don’t think it was all bad. It wouldn’t be fair to my mother.
Continue reading “The Campground Dog by Christopher Ananais”
I heard about this magazine running a competition offering a substantial cash prize for a piece of writing simply on the subject of how you would spend the cash. Well, I have no cause for hesitation, I would buy a tank. Surely second-hand and probably vintage WWII, or a little more modern. I don’t see how an individual would be allowed to buy or could afford a new one, but I have seen older models in private collections.
Continue reading “Prize by Robert Stone”
Mamaw don’t want to lock you in a cage, but I got no choice,” she apologized to her wailing granddaughter as she extricated herself from the overwrought child, both covered in spittle, snot, and tears, an ectoplasm of bodily fluids. The child desperately reached for her, arms stretched, fingers twitching, head thrusting.
Continue reading “Caged by R H Nicholson”
Jimmy Comerton and I were given the task of tidying up the big shed at the back of the yard. It was a wet autumn day, ideal for the job. After the frenzy of the harvest, the shed was in a mess. Bales of hay and straw had been thrown higgledy-piggledly everywhere, some bursting out of their bindings in an untidy sprawl. Machinery and tools had been lackadaisically discarded in unlikely places. We had also been commissioned to prepare a makeshift pen for the lambing season – my father always tended to think ahead.
Continue reading “How the Captain Got his Garter by Ian Douglas Robertson”
“I’ll need his name, something of his, and payment upfront, of course,” I say. The young brunette sitting across from me forces a half smile.
“Of course,” she replies. “His name is,” She pauses and her lower lip trembles slightly. “His name was Theodore,” she corrects herself. She reaches into her Dior purse and pulls out a pair of cufflinks. She then pulls out a matching wallet and pauses. “You said cash only, right?” She inquires. She slides her Gucci sunglasses off to see better in the dim lighting. Even from across the table, her eyes look red and puffy, presumably from crying.
Continue reading “Swindled by Seth Bleuer”
That year, swan-operators were in short supply.
The work of a swan-operator is hard and unrewarding, apart from the admiration and praise, like other professions I shall refrain from mentioning. There’d been a falling off in applicants in the year before the great day. Recruitment was difficult. Working conditions are somewhat cramped and the hours are long. There are risks. It’s understandable.
Swans are designed, as isn’t obvious from their behaviour, primarily for flight. Air is, in fact, their best medium. Well, you’ve seen them in the air, right? Magnificent.
Continue reading “Three Swans by Alex Faulkner”
Alan had a presentiment of a Nelson Rockefeller Moment in Dorothy’s shower, so he chose the healthy granola option for breakfast, rather than a bacon roll. It was a rare, cold, bright, windless, January day. After he’d loaded the dishwasher, he decided to take a walk down to the shore.
Continue reading “Alan’s Lost Domain by Michael Bloor”
This was one of those pieces that we knew we should publish but it crossed a couple of genres. Fiction, essay and translation. So where better than a special Sunday spot. Ladies and Gents – we give you :-
The Shoes Made of Soil by Georgia Xanthopoulou
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever – The Shoes Made of Soil by Georgia Xanthopoulou”
literally stories 