In the summer of 1997, when most men of his age were discovering the quiet dignity of cholesterol, Gopal Banerjee decided to make a perfume that would outlive death itself. Not metaphorically, he meant it quite literally. “Eternity,” he called it, though Calvin Klein had already used the name. Gopal didn’t mind; he believed trademarks were for those who lacked vision.
Continue reading “The Scent of Eternity by Susmita Mukherjee”
(The image is of the actual Andy, who graciously posed)
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Charity and Baby Hope had been searching for the perfect place to build a castle. Magick Minion Andy had done some in person searches and returned with the best prospect, which he explained to Charity in his surprisingly good Wiccan. “Surprisingly good” because your basic Cat, although all are born understanding the Wiccan tongue, has a bit of difficulty speaking it due to some of the trickier elongated vowels. Whenever your basic Cat meets a difficulty that really is not his problem he ignores it, but Andy is not your basic Cat, even though he does somewhat closely resemble a heavily used mop head more than he does an immortal Magick Gray Tabby.
Continue reading “A Castle For the Roller Derby Queen”
In the morning, the sun had long since risen above the horizon, casting stark, foreboding shadows over the Yampa River. We stood at the edge of the water, my wooden boat bobbing gently on the surface. The wind whispered secrets through the cottonwoods and I felt the weight of my history bearing down upon us. We had married, and this handsome kind man had promised to spend the rest of his life with me, knowing I was doomed to run this river every two weeks for all time.
We pushed off from the shore.
Continue reading “Hell’s Half Acre by Danyl A Doyle”
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”
Do you remember the night you went out, and all the cats were there? I can remember everything you told me, and you know that’s not how I usually am. You came in and sat right where you are now, and I was up on the chair. You waited till the programme finished, then you asked if you could turn it off. There was still a bit of cold in the air from you coming in.
Continue reading “The Cats’ Game by Ross Hetherington”
Tonight Jack would talk to the ghost. He took to the street. The warm wind is blowing on his face. Splash—pound—Nikes scrape the edge of a curb. Whoa that was close. He lets his mind wander down into his feet. His mind is splash-pound.
Continue reading “Are You Going to Kalamazoo? By Christopher Ananias “
Every night the pictures on his lampshade came to life. Rodeo cowboys on galloping stallions threw ropes at the moon.
The boy’s sister once called him “Nutsy-Crackers” because of the strange things he was always seeing. Later she shortened it to just Crackers.
In the middle of the night, he lifted the window (quiet as a thief) climbed out and lowered himself to the ground, praying that the weight of all the coins in his pocket wouldn’t rip through the material. The rest of the house slept.
Continue reading “The Old Fisherman by Joe Ducato”
The Montagues’ and Capulets’ disapproval of an ill-fated union was mirrored by the opprobrium this couple aroused in their Australian families. She was practical and ambitious while he gave imagination a free pass, a kind of poor man’s negative capability. What he wanted to do and what others wanted him to do, were not the same. Feeling hounded, they found work together in the U.S. Always happiest when fleeing responsibility, the sheer glorious relief, he hadn’t faced this fact yet. Without telling any relatives, they left their troubles all behind, or so they thought. When the U.S. didn’t work out, visas cancelled, they crossed the Atlantic.
Continue reading “Death in Damp Bracken by Ian C Smith”
The art of projection, in this instance, involves an ingenious contraption that allows me to float above ground while speaking grave truths to those I’ve been hired to frighten. Or to comfort. Or to confuse, as the case may be. Sometimes silence is all that’s required, but silence of a special kind, needless to say, the kind they call ‘loaded’, the kind that towers, or otherwise makes a portentous impression. Ghost is what I do. It’s a living, if you’ll pardon the expression; and a good one too, in that those who require my services, being usually very rich, pay very well. I’m familiar with the interiors of castles, manor-houses, hunting lodges, theatres, the odd inn. I’m given the requirements, told what manner of ghost it is needs to haunt the place, and adapt accordingly. Doubtless, to your bodily eyes, at this moment, I appear little more than a tallish man, bearded, bald and middle-aged, but trust me, when I’m clad in dusty servant’s garb or bedecked in faded finery, my face moon-pale, I’m altogether more imposing, unsettling – especially if observed from a short distance. Should a haunting entail my having to speak, I learn the words given me, no matter the language, and intone or croak or mutter or bellow in whatever accent is most appropriate. I’ve made cryptic pronouncements in Old French, I’ve made cryptic pronouncements in Latin; I’ve cursed in Swedish, foretold ill fortune in Gaelic. I’ve been a judge who was hanged for murder, I’ve been a minstrel who drowned in a moat; I’ve even been a dead gravedigger, one said to haunt a particular cemetery adjacent to a certain cathedral. It wouldn’t do to be too specific. As I say, ghost is what I do. But never, never have I knowingly been party to any kind of plot or conspiracy or such like. My involvement in matters was always necessarily limited to brief appearances, a few words here, a protracted silence there. I was not privy to the wider machinations of those who engaged my services.
Continue reading “Apparitionist by Geraint Jonathan”
No one grows up wanting to build coffins. When she was little, Veralai wanted to be a mage, or as she said as a toddler “make life sparkle.” She was the daughter of a woodcarver, who sometimes helped the local undertaker carve his coffins. When her father’s hands started to quiver, Veralai took his place. Even though it was unintended, Vera fell in love with death. Over time, she became the Coffin Maker of Cortana, renowned for using her crystal ball to peer into the memories of the deceased and create their perfect coffin.
Continue reading “The Coffin Maker of Cortana by Kate O’Sullivan”
literally stories 