With Respect to P.H. Emerson’s Fairy Tale, “The Crows”
I woke up this morning to the sound of crows cawing outside my window.
As I lay staring at the ceiling, I wondered how many were gathered in the yard, perched along the aging wooden fence, watching. And waiting. Was a single bird calling out in search of a friend? Were there two or three, or more, chasing away the deer that liked to nibble on Mom’s yellow roses?
Maybe they were trying to tell me something, as only crows can do.
“Err…Ladies and Gentlemen…The Groom.”
The wee mousey man backed away out the door. The groom stood up championing Sports Direct and eating a Gregg’s sausage roll.
Continue reading “Joint Claim (A Modern Marriage) by Hugh Cron – Warning Adult Content.”
“—As you know, the program uses a combination of advanced geometry and quantum computing to respond quickly to market shifts and improve the firm’s pricing of derivatives. It’s also been enormously helpful in the area of risk analysis—”
Sitting at his desk, listening to the young programmer speak, Matt shook his head slowly. As usual, he had no idea what the lanky quant was trying to tell him.
She looked at the baby, and wondered – is there something wrong with me?
She took in its ten little fingers and toes, the soft folds of fat around its upper legs, its arms, its wrists. The perfect little mouth. She had never known such softness. And she wondered – what kind of monster am I?
One more try. She widened her mouth, lifting the corners in the same way that they did, but it still didn’t look right. Something was off, she just couldn’t figure out what; the teeth perhaps? She closed her lips, but that just looked worse.
(Oh well, no time to perfect it now.)
She moved away from the mirror, put on her new coat (bought especially for the occasion) and squirmed. The shop attendant had claimed it was a perfect fit, but it felt tight and restrictive. The sleeves were itchy too. She took it off, put her old one on, and checked the address again before setting off.
“Curry for the fourth day running. Thank fuck for Aldi and their sixty pence liver. Bit shite having it for breakfast though.”
Don ate as much as he could. His heaving was worth it as he’d finally saved enough money for a lager.
He got himself ready and walked to the pub. He hadn’t had a drink in over a month. He jingled the change in his pocket, his pals would be there but there was no way he could’ve walked in without the price of a pint.
Continue reading “A Lone Ranger by Hugh Cron -Warning-Adult Content”
I maneuvre my Schwinn Ten-Speed Racer around all the established potholes, black ice and rotted roadkill that lay in my path. A mass of gray stony sky looms above, mirroring the stretch of road that lies before me. I have become too familiar with these two miles or so of bleak service road that connects North Edison to South, and more importantly, connects me to Durham Road and The Galaxy Diner. As I make my descent down the sloping asphalt, my bike begins to pick up startling speed, making the twenty-something air temperature feel more like forty-fucking below. I sit rigid and hyper-alert, letting the winds pound against me. Tears run down my cheeks and solidify into a salty paste that sting like hot wax on my skin. I tighten the drawstring of my hoodie and button the top button of my fleece-lined Lee corduroy jacket, momentarily navigating the bike with my knees. As I cruise through the turnpike underpass, I let out a strategically timed scream to hear the sound of my voice echo into the abyss, as if convincing myself and anything else with ears that I am, for the moment, still very much alive.
It was a bright Tuesday morning, and the city’s dense, forest-like clusters of residential towers were stirring to life like immense ant hills in the hot rays of the sun. Down on the streets, the waves of commuters came pouring out of the towers to converge on the massive Ninth Gen Maglev Station at the base of the main transportation bridge.
“Kanyakakku sarpa dosham kanunnu,” the astrologer passed his verdict: The maiden had the curse of serpents.
Continue reading “The Curse of Jasmine by Hareendran Kallinkeel”
That blue up there, farthest from the looming sun, is the colour his face was when I found him. Or at least it seemed that way in the creeping, early morning light. Face up, with a delicate trail of spittle across his shaven chin; and that unearthly colour staining his body — no film or book had prepared me for that.
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