Night falls black and starless. His eye is drawn to the cemetery. A chill runs through him. Young sees his breath in the porch light. He takes the air into account—the change. Things will have to be shut off soon and covered, other things will have to be turned on. He hears footsteps and the slamming of cabinet doors. Young thinks, are those snowflakes? I hope not. Trinity’s rusty black Chevy Cavalier has the trunk lid standing open.
Continue reading “Girl on a Trampoline by Christopher Ananias”Category: General Fiction
The Weight of Nothing by Kip Knott
Sam doesn’t like sunsets. Sunsets for Sam are a daily reminder that death is just over the horizon. Sunrises aren’t much better for Sam either because they just start the clock running again, marking time until the next sunset. Even now, as he stands outside his mother’s house smoking a cigarette while the hospice nurse tends to his dying mother, Sam is unpersuaded by the light of one of those sunsets in which people swear they see Jesus’s outstretched arms in the iridescent rays that beam between clouds. Sam just shakes his head in disgust, then turns and walks inside.
Continue reading “The Weight of Nothing by Kip Knott”Swordfish by Graham Mort
Swordfish laid out in the supermarket, next to tuna steaks and mackerel. Marlin, the guy behind the counter offers, wiping bloody hands on his white jacket. Mussels laid on a bed of samphire. You can almost taste the salt. Call me Ishmael. A wide Sargasso Sea. Wind over waves. Barnacles on the hulls of schooners, where a man could be keelhauled. As it happens, I’m shopping for other things. Breakfast cereal, yoghurt, pineapple, white wine. The list written out on a scrap of cardboard torn from a tissue box. So, yes, move on.
Continue reading “Swordfish by Graham Mort”Love Handles by Susan DeFelice
After his anxiety attack in the barely cold sea water, Barry walked to the outside European-style tiki bar where a woman with a roiling accent was singing Sinatra, with just a stand-up bass and conga player accompanying her.
Continue reading “Love Handles by Susan DeFelice”Week 522: Dope Show 2025
Sometime this spring will mark my fourth anniversary of sharing the weekend wrap duties. It was either in April or May 2021, I think, although I could look it up.
Continue reading “Week 522: Dope Show 2025”Everyone Dies by Danni Meek
There’s a man in my home.
He’s staring out of the large windows, the ones that I sit by and read my books because they’re the only source of natural light on this side of the apartment. The light from the moon almost gives him a glow, making him look vaguely angelic. It’s almost comedic how ironic that is, considering the fact that he’s broken into my home.
Continue reading “Everyone Dies by Danni Meek”The Night They Brought Him Home by Jake Bristow
When they brought him home that night, the lid was strewn canted off the wooden lip and jacks and queens ornamented astray around the box like a ring of fire. Someone- I do not remember who- had loaded coal into the fireplace and after some poking it begun to lick its flame at the iron grate. Ma was cold and Paul and Jane huddled around the hearth for they were cold but I suppose not as cold as him. Still, it only felt right to keep him warm.
Continue reading “The Night They Brought Him Home by Jake Bristow”Four Giraffes by Alex Faulkner
The four giraffes walked through the city, their metal limbs and their pulleys, gears and crankshafts clanking and whirring as they delicately placed one foot in front of another, and another and another and another.
Continue reading “Four Giraffes by Alex Faulkner”At Spences Bridge by Harrison Kim
Cody uploads the video of his day from his phone to the computer and does a voice-over.
“Other people try to draw us into their nightmares,” he states, “My video will show you what it’s like to travel alone.”
Continue reading “At Spences Bridge by Harrison Kim”Gordo by Ashley Earls Davis
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His eyes are fixed to the street, staring blankly at the late sunlit cars queuing over the cross. Like he’s thinking. Or perhaps he’s pissed. He lifts a full ten of stout to his pouted lips and takes two long gulps, spine arched tautly at the dust-strewn pane. Is it Rod? Or that bloke we called Doggo? I scratch my neck and try to remember his name. He lowers his glass and digs out some chips from a bowl in front of him. Dips them in tomato sauce and shoves them in his gob. Reaches for his cold one again. I grin at him. His hand movements are overly cautious. Like those of an old codger’s. Well I suppose we are both over the hill now aren’t we? Poor us bastards.
Continue reading “Gordo by Ashley Earls Davis”