The office tea-point was a miserable space; a battered sink, whose hole emitted a cloacal smell, and a kettle thick with scale. A window looked out onto the building’s cavernous atrium. Tom gently swung it open and peered out. His gut untightened. Karen was still out there, thank God – talking to some clients in leather chairs, waving her hands around in histrionic gestures. Dampened by the acoustics of the hall, a few words and phrases echoed up; ‘New standards in lean product design’, ‘restructuring the client-customer interface’. The clients nodded sagely.
He could still feel the email, framed ominously in his ‘sent mail’ box: Continue reading “Mates Don’t Grass by Matt Hornsby”
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU. YOU CAN’T MAKE ME…”
“Mister King. Please. We’re trying to help you. If you would just be quiet for a moment—”
“I’M NOT LISTENING TO YOU. LA LA LA-”
“MARTIN! Thank you. We won’t tolerate childish behaviour, regardless of your emotional state. We are attempting to ease you through this painlessly.” Continue reading “September 31st by Edward Field”
We share this space, this
same space, occupied by you
and I. The same time,
identical air, the very light. Continue reading “A Rift in Our Continuums by Charlotte Ozment”
I have a vague recollection of someone once telling me that when they died they hoped the first thing that happened was that they were presented with a DVD of their entire life. Overwrapped – waiting for them to reminisce in full HD – an agreeable concept. Sugar-coated.
In all honesty, they were not too far from the truth. At least that was the case for me, and that (of course) is all the evidence I have to go on. The experience itself is more spasmodic; less obvious I guess: a balloon burst of innumerable images left to marinate the inside of what remained of my head. To settle, and filter – one at a time – through the two blank exit holes with which I had once been privy to a weird little thing called life. Continue reading “A Weird Little Thing Called Life by Richard Alexander”
Right now, I’m sitting in a queue about to have my memories erased, and soon they’ll be lost forever – such things are inevitable, I suppose, or so they tell me; but in these last few minutes, while I still can, I want to recall the day I first saw her, before it’s all gone; and when it’s all gone, as a common courtesy, maybe for the time being, you could remember it for me, on my behalf – at least until the moment comes when you have your memories erased too. Continue reading “Wake Up To Yourself by Aviva Treger”
Call it nominative determinism. The name’s Adyna. Means wretched in Welsh. Thanks, parentals.
These days I wake up wretched. The dreams get me so bad I come into the world sweaty and disorientated, the words I’m sorry on my lips, a rasp in my throat which suggests I’ve only recently finished a scream. Continue reading “Wretched is my Name by A.J. Kirby”
Search bar. Copy and paste.
Index. Names. Dates. Faces.
Gallery. Photographs. Still frames. View in high resolution?
Screaming colour. Red. Silver. Skin.
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Click. Click. Click.
Continue reading “Sylvan by J. Nolan-Lee”