Ruth is forty-six, of medium stature, with brown hair and blue eyes. She is a biologist specialising in wolf behaviour. A week ago, she received a scholarship from a private institution to write a book about these animals. Ruth maintains that by means of howling, communication can be established between our species and theirs. Wolves can pass on lessons of cooperation, solidarity and affection. The Secret of the Wolf is the title she intends to give the book. This is why she is living alone in a cabin in the woods. Having gone through two divorces, and having no children or close family, wolves became her only passion; she even confessed to a colleague that she prefers their company to that of humans – “wolves don’t lie,” she said.
Continue reading “The Wolf and the Lamb by João Cerqueira”Tag: Short Fiction
Sunday Whoever
This week’s whoever is a long-time friend of the site, with his first piece published in 2019, and he is possibly the most adventurous. When we hit Marco Etheridge with a humungous questionnaire he answered quickly while sitting in the sunshine in very exotic climes Have a look at his back catalogue, he is one of our finest writers. So this is what he had to say:
Continue reading “Sunday Whoever”Week 471 – I Wonder What The Executives Called It? The Fear Should Be After And Falsetto Ain’t For Me.
Week 471 is the week that was.
And when you think on it, it’s also the week that is.
And as I start to type, then it’s also the week that will be!
Don’t you just hate it when someone hasn’t a clue about their tenses?
I read this week that Mary Poppins has been re-classified due to an obscure reference.
I don’t want to go into this again but I do wonder where this is all going to end?
Actually, I don’t think it will. I reckon all films will soon be classed as unsuitable if any of the characters light up a cigarette.
Continue reading “Week 471 – I Wonder What The Executives Called It? The Fear Should Be After And Falsetto Ain’t For Me.”Treehouse by Hanwen Zhang
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”When the Sun Dies by Tathagata Banerjee
The thing that you need to understand is, living beings die.
It’s not welcome, yeah. It is not something to look forward to, but it does happen. And, at times, it is kinda funny.
When daddy killed the deer, I found it funny how she toppled over the ground and crumpled on its back. There is something intricately funny about tragedy, seeing something regal just fall and shatter. When, at the end, the sun dies, I think God will also sit back and have a merry little chuckle.
Continue reading “When the Sun Dies by Tathagata Banerjee”Sixty a Day Man by Andy Larter
“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 Unimaginary Friend by George Oliver
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”Just Give It Time by Matthew J. McKee
Saudade: (n.) a nostalgic longing to be near to something or someone that is distant; the desire to be near again to what has been loved and then lost, “the love that remains.”
Continue reading “Just Give It Time by Matthew J. McKee”Karass by Iván Brave
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.
Continue reading “Karass by Iván Brave”How I Made the Greatest Concert Movie of All Time by Adam Kaz
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”