Q never swerved to avoid a beast on the road – dead or alive. He would drive through it with an iron fist, as if fur and soft tissue were nothing. A mental illustration of focus, a kind of road karate like the art of board breaking. Always direct your power beyond the wood stack. A fox, a kangaroo – he had a bull bar and was not squeamish about death – an emu once near Broken Hill, had snapped a rabbit’s neck.
Continue reading “Swerve by Tamara Barrett”
When my head hurts, the shiny brass kettledrums play late into the night.
At first, I tried not sleeping. One day without sleep left me feeling a little unsteady; after two days I was getting stupid. By the third day it got bad—“all of the above” as they say on multiple-choice tests with little black dots that have to stay in the circles and hurt my eyes—plus, I felt like my head was filled with Rice Krispies. After that it just felt like my brain was deep-fried.
Continue reading “Seizure Fugue by Max Klement”
Jennifer finished the last slice of defrosted quiche she’d bought from the freezer shop on Monday. She switched off the gas fire. In the kitchen she rinsed off the plate under the tap, pastry crumbs, and slotted it on the drying rack. She put on her coat, shoes, unlocked the back door, stepped outside, locked it, and walked the five minutes to the bus stop nearest her house.
Continue reading “The Circle Route by Paul Kimm”
Darla pulled into the alley behind the bar and parked under the streetlight. Before she undid her seatbelt she sat in silence for a moment. She adjusted her rearview mirror and looked at her bloodshot eyes, the rims rubbed red from blotting tears. Over the two weeks since Joe Harrington dropped dead, Darla struggled as much with the prospect of her own future as much as her loss. The same thoughts ran over and over thumping her mind like a shoe in a dryer. I’m 64, I have no retirement savings, no real family. I need to keep working but my knees hurt all the time. How long can I keep this up? Her tiny self-chosen family had just lost their most stable member; she had lost her best friend and former lover. She took a make-up bag from her purse and went to work on her eyes.
Continue reading “Joe Harrington’s Wake by JD Clapp”
“Jimmy!” Grant whispered. He grabbed his sleeping brother’s shoulder and shook him. “Jimmy, wake up!”
Continue reading “Something’s Wrong with Mom by Warren Benedetto”
The clap of sandals as I lick my fingers, chocolate gelato leaking onto my wrists. Should I Google heatstroke symptoms? A young woman lies topless on the rocks below, her stomach chalky with dried salt. I take a swig of lager, the bitter foam spilling onto my beard.
Continue reading “The American by Ata Zargarof”
The night after maami was laid 6ft deep in the ruthless earth, Tunde lit a cigarette and settled at the backyard to smoke. I observed him from the kitchen window. No, I won’t go outside and pass judgement; after all, both of us have been engulfed in our own sins since maami’s death. I was angry, though I can’t quite put my finger on the source of my anger. Perhaps it was Uncle Ade’s bellowing, demanding more beers for him and his friends earlier today at the funeral service. Ever since father’s demise, none of his relatives reached out or showed up. But Uncle Ade had the audacity to come to this house for maami’s funeral, demanding beer to be served to him and his friends. I wished for him to choke on it, his body discarded like refuse on a dunghill. However, this alone didn’t trigger my anger enough; it’s something else I an’t quite fathom.
Continue reading “Red Prints by AJ David”
Sometimes I go to Mordialloc pier to watch people fish. I never fish myself. I hate the smell and getting my fingers sticky with bait and having to watch behind you to make sure you don’t snag anyone with the hook and permanently blind them. But I like watching. Interesting things happen when you watch for long enough. Nothing of the adventurous kind. Just odd, amusing things squeezed between stretches of monotony. I am then assured that my life will, at the very least, be filled with amusing details if I care to look. I don’t hope for adventure anymore. The feeling I get when I return home from one is dreadful. I’d like no more of them.
Continue reading “Mordialloc Pier by Matthew Lee”
By the time my mother mentions falling, I let the drone of her voice fade to the unawake part of my mind. Her words are a steady hum, punctuated by rattling breaths and muffled snorts as she clears the tangy scent of antiseptic from her nostrils. If I let my gaze drift away from her paper-white figure on the hospital bed, I can pretend that I’m alone. In my peripherals, she blends into the monotony, clear and soft as water. The only thing that moves is her mouth, but her ramblings are like static – barely present, and even more unintelligible when I focus on them.
Continue reading “World Tilting at Bedtime by Katya Lee”
It was her father who first showed her. If you pointed your arms straight at two very distant points, features in the landscape, or clouds, or stars, you made yourself the centre of the universe. Everything was drawn into you, you were the fundamental point of a triangle, whose hypotenuse, a funny word at first but easy to remember once you had said it two or three times, could shift between any pair of objects, the sun and the moon, two trees, the chimney on top of the neighbours’ roof and the tv aerial on the top of her parents’ house, any two things, anywhere. It really didn’t matter, it was still a triangle, because of the one fixed point, and the two others.
Continue reading “A Call To Arms by Julian Walker”
literally stories 