The spiced cool air blowing through the car vents comes laced with wood smoke. It is a scent that weaved its way into the fabric of childhood alongside that indoor fireplace, which had been a burning city, or a burning home, or a burning bridge, or any burning spectacle I felt should be extinguished during games of heroism in the autumn and winter months.
Continue reading “Leaves by August Miller”
Edmund’s wife, Wendy, had been unconscious in hospital for weeks, but no doctor could diagnose her illness so they discharged her to recover at home, with Edmund as her sole carer.
As Wendy lay still as a mannequin in her queen-sized bed, drawing in short imperceptible breaths, summer flooded in from the streets outside. Sun splashed through their bedroom window, as leaves on trees glowed a robust green, and birds danced on the tips of trembling boughs.
Continue reading “Open Window by Tim Frank”
How do you know how much space is left in your head? What if all the ads for floss or McDonald’s on YouTube means everything you cherish is forced out of your brain into the stratosphere sending you Neolithic?
I had been dining in Ma Mabel’s bar for three months before I saw Bimpe. But nobody spoke about her. They all spoke about Ma Mabel. Yet it seemed no one knew her. Her bar was on Moloney Street, near the police academy. It wasn’t too far from my workplace in Marina. Everyone came to Old Ma Mabel’s bar. Different people, from various walks of life, Lagosians troubled with Lagosian problems – financial worries, overbearing bosses and cheating spouses, not to mention the long lines of traffic that lined Third Mainland Bridge every other day. No one knew Ma Mabel. Her bar had been near Kam Salem for longer than I remembered. Some of the patrons said she had died, others said she was an old woman confined to a wheelchair, and only came out of her house at night. She was elusive, a poor imitation to Fitzgerald’s Gatsby. I doubt she had Gatsby’s boundless charm though.
Continue reading “Beside Kam Salem by Adédoyin Àjàyí”
What most disturbed Ben Sykes about his present situation was how it had crept up on him: Ben had lost his home, his wife, and he had thrown away his job. He wasn’t able to say which one thing brought him to this—the world was certainly a more complex and complicated place than placing blame on one thing. If it wasn’t for his ex-mother-in-law, Mrs. Edna Ferbish, allowing Ben to stay with her, well.
Continue reading “A Pebble at Dawn by J Bradley Minnick”
To some, hindsight proves a faithful if fashionably late companion. Though it often offers questionable advice, reflexion is more tolerant than people, each of whom seems keen to speak of subtle feelings Chas rarely recognises. His, ‘I’m just angry’ stock response fails to satisfy those in search of his finer feelings.
‘Sad–’
‘No space for sadness when you’re angry.’
Continue reading “As Ever, the Nun by Antony Osgood”
I’ve had a problem controlling my temper my entire life. It started when I was young. If I didn’t get my way there’d be hell to pay. I used to get into a lot of fights. A few times I even ended up in the hospital. And that all happened before I got out of grade school. Fortunately, over time, I was able to change. What happened? I wish I could say that I had a simple answer or a magic formula, but it really just came down to wanting to do more with my life than spending it being a pugilistic jerk who settled his arguments with his fists. At least I never used a gun.
Continue reading “Storm Clouds by James Bates”
Cognitive Dissonance, my jazz combo, show signs of being on an upward swing, even though we left the audience at the altar last Fall when we almost but not quite played “A Love Supreme.” The show was a victim of unexpected interference from my day job, when my boss Ronnie was thrashed by the competition’s guys. I had to run to see him at the hospital minutes before we were planning to hit the stage. It was mandatory.
Some band members blame the inexplicably awol drummer, who prioritizes a half-week relationship over Cognitive Dissonance’s long-term reputation. Months of practice down the drain. However you frame the situation, our musical reach exceeded our grasp.
After I refund the ticket sales out of my own pocket, it’s ketchup soup and toaster leavings until Spring.
Continue reading “The Kid Who Thinks He’s Grown by Todd Mercer“
Blood puddled like pureed cranberry sauce on the floorboards, seeping into cracks and staining the reindeer-skin rug. Erica the Elf sat in the cosy armchair by the fire – His chair – watching the red liquid trickle in tiny tributaries towards the television cabinet. She took a cigar from the box on the coffee table and lit it, letting the match scorch her fingers, the smell of smoke mingling with the metallic stench of death. Glancing at the Fat Man’s corpse lying semi-naked in the centre of the room, Erica dialled the emergency services number and waited.
Continue reading “The Bad Elf by David Christopher Johnston”
Oh, how satisfying it will feel to fill that final gap on the wall! In just a few hours, his collection will be complete at last, the wall completely covered in carefully measured rows and columns of black and white stills. The precision of the white gaps (28 mm) between each photograph gives Andrew great pleasure – he has always been exceptionally neat. It is extraordinary how many memories are held, suspended, within these grains of film. His favourite is 8 across 6 up, the one with a small 36 inscribed on the bottom corner.
Continue reading “The Darkroom by Freya Williams – Warning – content that some readers may find disturbing.”
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