Fiction
by Domenico Pisanti
He walked into the restaurant, a man in his early fifties; someone who turned heads and for a brief moment reminded all who glanced in his direction of a happier time in their lives. Then it was business as usual. A waiter was already making his way towards the man, who was looking around as though trying to find someone.. |
From Issue 15 (Nov 2011) |
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by Lynne Jamneck
I am beginning to grasp an understanding of the mystery that has always surrounded my father. Mother never talked about his work. As children we had asked but never received satisfying answers. Like myself, he had been a student of archeology and anthropology; unlike his daughter, the rules and regulations of the university could not keep him bound. |
From Issue 15 (Nov 2011) |
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by Davin Ireland
The desert here is pink and rocky and shrouded in darkness for much of the day. The excavation site is slashed with grey spills of rubble that could be collapsed towers or random seams of granite. To the east, great clouds of mortar dust boil across the plains, scouring the arid landscape, depriving it of fresh growth. Only the Idrl remain. |
From Issue 14 (Oct 2011) |
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by Michael Hodges
I eat words. I don’t know why. I hang in the corners of this old and meticulous house by unseen hooks or latches. The words come to me from the mouths of the family and their visitors. The words of the adults come out grey, brown and black; the words of the young rise to me in reds, greens and blues. I swallow them all, and each time I do, something inside me grows. I know not what it is, only that I receive energy from this action. |
From Issue 14 (Oct 2011) |
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by William Mitchell
I liked to call it my "dirty little secret". Not that "little" was the word, of course. Understatement had always been a vice of mine; now, however, I had another. For when the captain of an opium clipper is slowly killing himself with his own cargo, it's something he can be excused for wanting to keep hidden. Could you call it a weakness? Some might. Could I have stopped? Maybe, if I’d wanted to go mad in the process. For if you'd ever experienced the kind of pain that makes you think you'd rather die than carry on living, then perhaps you'd understand why I did it. |
From Issue 14 (Oct 2011) |
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by A.A. Garrison
They left in the gray of morning, Penning and his only son, Willam. By carriage, the city was a half day's journey. The treasons were at high noon. The two mounted the carriage's uncushioned bench and Penning started the horses, the chinked, tumbledown house drifting past. Willam followed it with his head, Henri on the porch and waving. Willam called out, "Bye, Mama!" and waved back. The humble property was soon out of sight. It was Willam's ninth birthday. |
From Issue 14 (Oct 2011) |
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by Damien Filer
“What is this pain down in my seed?” Herman was prone to wonder, of a day. He would fidget and shift, so restless there at the dinner table, grease beading up on his big ole forehead under the shine of the fluorescent light. |
From Issue 13 (Sept 2011) |
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by Scott Brendel
I was in such a rush to bury her, I forgot about the ring. |
From Issue 13 (Sept 2011) |
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by Paul Marlowe
London! Paragon of cities. How many wonders there are, in its villas, its marketplaces, in its streets and tunnels. London – this uncommon weal of fateful miracles, and of horrors that I know only too well. Cheek by jowl a multitude lie, a thousand-thousand strange tales between them, unknown but for the chance mis-step into an unfamiliar alleyway – the passing glimpse along a half-lit, fog-swathed street. So has it always been in the great cities that draw in every kind of creature. Those who toil; those who live upon them. The builders, the wreckers. Town- and country-men. The eager, the wicked, the mad; and not from this isle alone, but from all the ends of the world. Indeed, not only from this… but now, let me see. How to begin. |
From Issue 13 (Sept 2011) |
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by Jason Kahn
“…‘Tis a perilous time we live in, good people, as we are beset on all sides by the agents of darkness,” boomed the orator in deep, sonorous tones. Despite the stifling air, an icy chill prickled up Mary’s spine. This voice was familiar too, though its owner’s identity eluded her. She moved closer, attempting to see. |
From Issue 13 (Sept 2011) |
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