George was a pretty good writer. At least, he definitely wasn’t a bad writer. Two separate agents had told him they liked the start of his novel. Keep writing, they said. And the editor of a magazine had once written that he liked the idea of one of his stories, even if the story itself wasn’t quite right for the magazine.
He’d always been a good writer. When he was eight or nine he won a prize for an essay about the fields where they used to walk with his uncle’s dog, and after that he always knew he’d be a writer. He stopped writing for a while when he was a teenager and then through university – he was too busy studying and fooling around! – and for a while after he left university he still didn’t write, but then at some point he felt the need to start again and now he knew he’d never stop. It was the one thing he was good at and it was all he wanted to do. His whole life was organised around writing, and in particular around finishing his novel. Continue reading “Keep writing, they said by Christopher Branson”
My doctor speaks. I hear garbled vowels and consonants chewed into small bits and pushed around his mouth like smashed pieces of marbles.
He stutters then vomits. Words tumble from his lips, broken thoughts which should have been left unsaid. I close my eyes, afraid of seeing more, fearful of taking in too deep a breath. Continue reading “On a Visit to the Doctor by Arlene Antoinette”
I learnt to walk within minutes of birth. Surely, I can manage this. Can’t I?
In front of me the long, shifting puzzle piece of rain macs and damp heads stirs. The afternoon fog is forked by the faintest glitter of lightning. Finally, after so long standing still, we all move along three paces. A light rain has wetted my muzzle. I keep shaking back locks of coarse white-tipped hair which have escaped in front of my eyes. No matter how delicately I try to tread, my steps always sound louder than everyone else’s. Continue reading “The Wildebeest Soul Star by Annie Rose”
He’s not dead, as they claim. How can an immortal die? Pan has only transformed into winter, which makes sense, if you’re a god. Eternal life is a cycle. Mortals fool themselves, feigning ignorance, choosing to believe they own a soul immortal. Their life is a repetition of cycles that ends sooner or later, once and for all. Ours is eternal. Like sister Persephone, he descends to Underworld from time to time. Only when she goes down, he comes up.
People can barely walk in the snow. Strong winds blow above their heads. They should be at home, warming their hands by the fire, yet they walk down the street shouting, like they don’t have a home to go to. People are determined to keep on walking. They are defending something. Either their homes, their families, their lives, or their right to speak, love or walk freely. Continue reading “The Great God Pan is Dead by Mileva Anastasiadou”
The kitchen is cold. Except by this floor vent. That’s why the table is so close to it.
The kitchen is dark too. Just lit by the lamp on the other table. Across the room.
It’s only five-fifteen, but it’s getting dark so early now. And I’ve shrunk, too,
with the winter days. It’s pointless to even try to get anything done. Continue reading “The Lord’s Suicide by Tony Gary”
Smiles are fake
And this isn’t paradise
We’re stubborn and cold
Counting working bars on the electric heater
And sputtering, drinking whiskey, to warm our
Bodies and we remain indifferent in conversations
Which shouldn’t make it passed these thick walls.
Continue reading “Train Wrecks by Mark McConville”
I like to travel
but I don’t like
what I like
is living in places,
and turning them
and getting to know it,
the way they say the locals
Continue reading “Microwaved meals in little rooms somewhere by D.S. Maolalai”