The Exchange by Toye EskridgeBattalion after battalion, the towering pines stood rigid, guarding both sides of the blacktop the salesman barreled down in his cream Studebaker. The pointed hood knifed the stifling Southern air.
Continue reading “The Exchange by Toye Eskridge”
The front door is already locked but I find Dan hanging around the tree in the backyard, legs curled up around the topmost branch as if he’s the Cheshire cat or something. No stripes, but the swagger to pass as one, all smug and smiling. Eminently punchable. He gestures at me to come up, casually, the way someone might give orders to a dog. The last time I saw him he owned a slobbery mastiff he would feed Grade A beef to.
Continue reading “Treehouse by Hanwen Zhang”
“Put ’em on t’ side,” Grandad croaked. He must have heard the kitchen door click open and shut.
He’d sent me to Mrs Byrne’s on the corner of Wightman Street for twenty Senior Service. “You can earn yer tea,” he said. “But mind I want change.” He gave me two half crowns. “Should be a bob.” He jabbed the stem of his briar at my face. “Think on.”
Continue reading “Sixty a Day Man by Andy Larter”
My friends had always been transparently envious of Molly, even if they weren’t verbalising this. But it was obvious.
Continue reading “My Unimaginary Friend by George Oliver”
The Forest. 1995-Nov-07. Prince George, BC. 1805 hours.
Mom taught me the stories of our people, from the moon goddess, whose light enchanted the night, to the banshee, whose scream was an omen of death. She practiced the paganism and witchcraft she’d learned from Nana, who’d long since gone to be with Donn—Lord of the Dead.
Continue reading “Donn and the Mourning Moon by Brandon Nadeau”
The man carried the three-year-old boy on his shoulders hurriedly pointing out to him as they made their slow and winding way through a crowd of smiling faces, the large bonfire, nearly as tall as a church tower. They stood and watched with amazement a firework display burn and spark into a myriad of colours, exploding with a roar above their raised heads. A man, meanwhile, had shinned his way like a tailless monkey to the top of the bonfire and setting it ablaze shinned back down again. The fire crackled, building up like a silent volcano and sputtering sprouted high into the firmament with a sudden bright flash, prompting a round of applause from the enthusiastic audience gathered in the cobbled street. High up on his father’s shoulders, the oohs and aahs of the cheering crowd made the young boy feel uneasy and he stopped his ears, peering upwards at the blue sky now becoming home to rampant streamers of black smoke, blotting the soft colours of the landscape, and the growing flames frightened him.
Continue reading “Picture The Dead by John Cantwell”
Things really pick up at the fifteen-minute mark. Lionel Bottom, lead singer, is belting the chorus of “Baby Without Bottle.” He’s suffused in steamy shades of red and purple, highlighting the angularity of his spiky hair and turning his pasty skin pink. He holds the microphone like he’s choking it when he sings, “We are men we need no coddle / We’re like baby without bottle.” It’s a glorious crescendo, really marvelous, powerful stuff, exactly what The Scrum is all about. A crowd of five thousand worships the trio with bacchanalian ardor, yelling, dancing.
Continue reading “How I Made the Greatest Concert Movie of All Time by Adam Kaz”
Snow happens quietly in many places, often overnight, without drama. Pull back the curtains before sunrise and under the streetlamps a sulphur tinted fondant drapes over everything – the rows of Victorian terraced houses on either side of the street, the pavement, cars, wheelie bins, everything. Garden hedges and shrubs sit undisturbed, revealing dots of evergreen just visible through layers of cotton. Higher up, tree branches, recently bare and springy, now sag wearily as bits of fine powder dust off intermittently in the breeze.
Continue reading “Snow Happens by Eileen Emmanuel”
The cup of coffee had gone cold days ago. The first gulp of it had indicated that but the second gulp confirmed that the coffee was not only cold but old, still Gene takes a third sip. How long would it be before she could make fresh coffee again? It would require standing up from the television and letting this little shit win.
Continue reading “Old and Cold by Rachel Sievers”
“They’ve come to collect Max. We’ll be up in ten minutes. You can keep him occupied for a bit longer, can’t you?”
“Yes, but…he’s wondering what the delay is.”
“Does he know?”
“He’s in the classroom with me now.”
“Please, not a hint as to what’s happening. If he runs off on his social worker…”
“I don’t think he’s in the mood for football right now, sir. I’ll make sure he’s occupied though.”
Continue reading “Of a Lie – by J.M. Munn”
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