Amber Kenny was a timid child. She had a round face and hair to match her name. Every night she prayed for her wild, orange curls to turn dark and straight but every morning they bounced back into place, redder than ever.
Continue reading “Kenny Women by Fiona McGarvey”
As luck would have it this piece has been brought to the surface in the nick of time. Leila’s comments are very pertinent now as we await the outcome of events over the next few weeks. This is what she said:
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Direct Democracy by Tobias Haglund”
Three thousand days in and America is still counting.
Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but it feels that way.
You wouldn’t see that happening in Britain. Our powers that be are a lot more organised than that. Well maybe not so much organised, but for every day not being in power is expenses that they are missing out on and children that they aren’t molesting.
Continue reading “Week 298 – Perfect Poaching, A Gorgeous Glare And A Respectful End.”
The grey metal lockers of the changing rooms slam with a familiar rhythm. Some staff carry the end of work day weariness in their shoulders, others give a cheery ‘See you tomorrow.’
Never to me.
Continue reading “GELDR by ShivaRJoyce”
When we received this work we were undecided what to do with it. We knew that we wanted to publish such a powerful and emotional piece of writing but, in fairness, it isn’t what we would normally class as a story. I will be honest and say that it moved me to tears.
Anyway, fate took a hand. We were scheduling this week at the time and when better to publish this than Remembrance Day.
The battle had been harsh, crude, and longer than expected, but at the inevitable end the ship Gerben Huraq had sailed on for three years, initially at the point of a maniacal sword in the hand of a maniacal privateer, was sinking fast. Huraq, still on the good side of thirty years of age and seemingly primed for long distance of days, had once crawled up a rescue rope to that ship from another sinking ship. Now, twice saved and twice accepted aboard a rescuing vessel, he was in the water again, in the Black Sea, the sea of seas, death scene of floaters, those abandoned, thrown overboard or fallen from their stations at battle, each one in a downward slide into their own histories. He had no idea how long he would last on this wide sea, until one precise moment when he espied the growing dot of a mast at full sails advancing from a distant point, ever moving closer, hope most possibly a passenger, and a final surge of excitement propelling his nearly inert body toward an expectant welcome.
Continue reading “Black Bird of Prey, the Death Ship by Tom Sheehan”
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Holly More first got drunk at the reasonably late age of nineteen. On a late summer Saturday night in 1977, he dropped in on a pair of college classmates who shared a shithole studio apartment at the base of Seattle’s Capitol Hill. The roomies extolled the virtues of “Bokay” apple wine, which sold for sixty-nine cents a bottle. Ritzy nectars such as Boone’s Farm, T.J. Swann and, Allah-forbid, Lancer’s were too fancy-pants pricewise for students who earned $2.10 an hour at Work Study jobs. That left MD 20/20, Night Train, Thunderbird and Bokay. Since the first three were what the Pioneer Square bums drank, the guys went with the Bokay. Holly later found out that Bokay was the wine of last resort amongst the Pioneer Square bums.
Continue reading “Elbows With Fishes by Leila Allison”
This week Leila has dusted off a story by a loyal friend of the site. James has been with us from the beginning – long may it continue:
Continue reading “literally Reruns – Table by the Window by James McEwan”
Here we are at Week 297.
There were some comments between us this week that made me think on meaning of story.
We are all three people.
Continue reading “Week 297 – A Trio Of Being, Being Shit With Charcoal And Worry For The Silent.”
Rata baboon-leered as the twenty stone clown started to sweat, the meth ravaged copper coloured flesh peeling back from his skull, rubberized dead slug lips baring his yellowed teeth.
Continue reading “The Child of Smoke by Alex Sinclair”
