Klib placed the bag on the counter and took out a sandwich. And now you have read the most boring sentence to begin a story ever. The bag, the counter, the sandwich, even Klib: nothing even remotely interesting.
Continue reading “The Chicken Sandwich by T.A. Young”
Several months after her daughter turned herself into a cat, Ahmya’s mother grew sufficiently brave to begin the onerous task of cleaning and tidying Ahmya’s bedroom, in readiness of her girl’s discharge from hospital. Amongst the usual debris of a Japanese teenager’s room, Ahmya’s mother discovered, between the pages of a diary she was loath to read, a fairytale written more than a year before. The girl’s mother had begun to return the diary to its drawer when the lose leaves fell to the floor; in that moment the mother believed she would never forget the gentle slap against her ankles—it felt like a scream, it reminded her of her daughter’s many subtle hints concerning what she was experiencing. Ahmya had shown her mother the fairytale, She’d been obliged to read it while her daughter watchfully waited—but she had not understood, had given back the story and poured a gin. And so she paused her tidying to read the story with more care. Later, as Ahmya’s mother took the train to the hospital, a sea of tears pooled in her head and she feared she would drown—she did not wish to swim. She reddened in shame. Second readings are devastating in two ways. First there is recognising yourself as a shallow reader—how could you have not understood before what is on second reading so obvious? Secondly, you must admit to your own callousness for relying on platitudes rather than taking seriously what the writer is trying to say. Ahmya’s fairytale was more than a fable; the story was a wish for her mother to understand the things her daughter was otherwise unable to express.
Continue reading “Second Reading by Antony Osgood”
I should take the gun and throw it into the river. The cool morning raises a chill up my back and touches my ears. The ceiling fan spins silently, driving me into the bedroom for my favorite cardigan. I don’t turn off the fan because the little gold chain pulled off in my hand, so it runs and runs. Like it’s making fun of me for being such a loser. The cardigan is gray and fuzzy and once it’s on my shoulders I’m wrapped in a pleasant warmth. My feet are in slippers. A coffee cup steams from the round table by my chair. I cannot lose these comforts, but taped to the kitchen window, a white paper clearly states I can and will. Courtesy of the Sheriff and the BANK if such a thing could ever be called a courtesy.
Continue reading “On the Edge of Gas Stations by Christopher Ananias”
After Jennifer died, our daughter encouraged me to sell the house and move to a condo. I told her, in gentler words, to go to hell.
Continue reading “The House Across the Street by Edward Ahern”
It’s like sitting in a cozy lamplit living room. A couch. A loveseat. Two cushioned chairs facing a mounted screen. Instead of a coffee table, though, a desk stands in the center, and instead of our favorite sitcom, we scroll through an electronic contract.
Funeral Agreement with Authorization to Prepare a Decedent for Burial
Continue reading “The Cost of Dying by Kayla Cain”
“If you gain, you gain all; if you lose, you lose nothing
Wager, then, without hesitation, that He exists.“
Pascal’s Wager
Brother Kyron’s junior year religion class, The Mystery and Meaning of The Holy Bible, was his latest dodge in the God Game—an odyssey through time, through chaos and order, from Genesis to Revelations, to the dismissal bell.
Continue reading “The God Game by Gerald Coleman”
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-94) had a short life but was a prolific author. His first work (a history) was published when he was just 16 and he went on to write 13 novels, 6 collections of short stories, and several books of non-fiction. They weren’t all wonderful: a sequel (‘Catriona’) to the brilliant ‘Kidnapped,’ is sometimes cited as a perfect example of an ill-advised sequel; and ‘St Ives,’ incomplete at his death, was then completed by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, mores the pity. But there are quite enough diamonds among his output to justify his global reputation.
Continue reading “Auld Author: Robert Louis Stevenson’s ‘The Master of Ballantrae’by Michael Bloor”
Purification through fire. This was the last thought in a long, meditative contemplation of methods to ease the pain. Ideas burned consuming. Golden aureole ablaze, she would be light cutting through prosaic night stupor. Simple, pure. A luminous non-entity. She remembered the photo her father took of her on her 7th birthday, the candlelight reflecting in her mossy eyes. He said they looked like copper pennies. He left 3 weeks later. Why didn’t he follow that melancholy flame back home like a meager lighthouse? Maybe she was supposed to trudge after him into the vacant nightness instead.
Continue reading “Solaritude by Robert Reece”
The cart creaks, pitches and yaws. A whip cracks up ahead. Four women sit on the floorboards, grey uniforms muddied. Sitting is not an act of mercy, they cannot stand without falling, their hands bound behind their backs. Ruth glances at the other women, but they are all within themselves, eyes unfocused. They have spent many hours together: on duty, in the mess, in the barracks, have shared laughter, secrets, tears. Now they are bloodied, bruised.
Continue reading “Ends by Matthew Roy Davey”
Today we celebrate Bella. Our beautiful, breathtaking, beloved, buried Bella. Our connection was less affection than ancestry, the sort of intimacy that shared blood makes inevitable.
Born less than two months apart, we were always together. Twins they called us, until our features grew too distinguishable to sustain the lie. I was small and sturdy, my skin the deep tan that made Nai Nai click her tongue and mutter about rice pickers and fieldwork. Bella possessed that particular alchemy of mixed blood: jade eyes set in porcelain skin, her father’s Scandinavian height stretched over her mother’s delicate Chinese bones, creating something that demanded worship.
Continue reading “Riptide by Manoela Torres”
literally stories 