Tag: folk tales

All Stories, Fantasy

The Cursed Tree of Ingbian by Torsaa Emmanuel

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Once upon a time, there lived a community called Ingbian, meaning “Relatives.” The community was called so because they did things together in one accord. They were deeply rooted in their traditional beliefs and had not embraced the gospel early. They worshipped multiple gods, often visiting shrines and performing rituals. Many of the community members were so engrossed in their spiritual practices that they engaged in astral projection at night.

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All Stories, sunday whatever

Sunday Whatever – The Shoes Made of Soil by Georgia Xanthopoulou

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This was one of those pieces that we knew we should publish but it crossed a couple of genres. Fiction, essay and translation. So where better than a special Sunday spot. Ladies and Gents – we give you :-

The Shoes Made of Soil by Georgia Xanthopoulou

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All Stories, Fantasy, Short Fiction

The Pelanconi Flower by Jon Krampner

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The Italian Renaissance is one of the crowning glories of western civilization. In Florence, Venice and other cities, men like Leonardo da Vinci shook off the centuries-old slumber following the collapse of the Roman Empire and blazed new trails through the intellectual firmament, sparking a fire in the minds of men and women that continues to this day. But even as they did so, village life continued much as it had for centuries. Our story concerns the remarkable events that took place in one of these villages.

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All Stories, Fantasy

Karass by Iván Brave

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After piling the paper bills from his last passenger and placing the square photograph of his wife on top of the money, the ferryman lights a match. He lowers it slowly, shaking. But just then a breeze blows out the flame, leaving nothing behind but a thin waft of smoke. There are no more matches, unfortunately. Now his hut—earthy, with a cot, a bucket, and a small shrine inside—feels emptier than ever.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Odori’s Grandfather A miniature by O Chŏnghǔi

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Translated from the Korean by Bruce and Ju-Chan Fulton

“Hey, Odol! School’s out?” We were on our way home when we heard this. Odori’s grandfather, crouched on the roof of their home and framed by jumbled white clouds streaming through a blue sky, was looking down at us. The prickly autumn sunlight glanced off the orange slate of the roof.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Night the River Sang by Claire Massey

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Prelude: Native American legend has it that the Pascagoula tribe preferred death by drowning to lives of enslavement by their enemies. According to one “mist of time” story, men, women, and children were heard chanting to their ancestors while walking en masse into this Mississippi coastal river. Receptive listeners, recreating on these waters, have long reported phantom music. In 1985, historians successfully lobbied for a name change, from the Pascagoula to the Singing River.

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All Stories, Fantasy

Love by Djordje Negovanovic

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The succubus child was not supposed to fall in love.

“Demon, please, a child for my wife,” the desperate man pleaded.

The succubus child was not supposed to fall in love.

“I have tried and tried and tried, Demon, but I cannot rear a child. Please, for her. She deserves this happiness.”

The succubus child was not supposed to fall in love.

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All Stories, Fantasy, General Fiction

You’ll Never Understand the Circumstances That Brought You To This Moment by J Bradley Minnick

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Story goes: Wonders like Rock School are more dreamt and pieced together by collective imaginations than planned; perhaps Tumbling Creek had called itself forth during the flood season and its rushing waters had picked up the first rock and transported it to the top of the hill and set it down there and once Rock School took shape, it could only become what was intended.  

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Smoothing Stream by Michael Bloor

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After the cremation, I felt I had to get away. I found a Perthshire country house hotel on the internet, situated in one of those mysterious winding glens that end abruptly in a wall of rock. The hotel advertised itself as ‘a mecca for hill-walkers,’ but that clearly only applied outside the shooting season, as was evidenced by the stags’ heads in the hallway, bar and library. More like an abattoir than a country house hotel, it seemed on arrival. Nevertheless, the staff were friendly and the weather was surprisingly dry for April, so I decided to stay on for a second week: I didn’t relish returning home to an empty house – her clothes in the wardrobe, her flowers in their pots on the kitchen window. And it wasn’t really until that second week that I got to know Willie Anderson.

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All Stories, Fantasy, General Fiction

The Bridge at Drochaisling by Anthony Billinghurst

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Georgia was being difficult before we landed in Dublin, which was nothing new. She changed and became assertive the second she was promoted to Deputy Head at her primary school; she even adopted a power walk. It’s true the flame of our marriage no longer burns like a log fire, but it does glow like anthracite when fanned enough. My friends who noticed told me I’m hen pecked but as Georgia said, I needn’t wonder if I’m hen pecked, she’ll tell me when I am.

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