Category: Short story

The Dancer’s Walk By Franklyn Ajaye

My name is Deja Blue, and I’m a sax player.  My dad was a sax player too.  You might’ve heard of him.  The late, great Noah Blue.  He’s the one who named me.  When I asked him why he named me that, he said, “When I first saw you, you reminded me of a sad

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One Night at Saint Peregrine’s By V.J. Hamilton

Dwight hovered in front of the vending machine. Oversalted chips, over-sugared candy bars, or the caloric emptiness of gum. Why did the hospital offer such faux nutritional alternatives; wasn’t that a conflict of interest? When he was a kid, vending machines meant something exotic or exciting. The rare trips to Father’s workplace had always involved

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The Haunting of Lord Baraclough By Ian Murphy

The degree to which a gentleman reveals himself to another is a curious state of affairs at the best of times, though I suppose the holding of a razor to one’s throat helps. That said, I doubt anyone would be the slightest bit surprised at a gentleman’s willingness to betray the confidence of another, whether

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Scotoma By Carla Morgan

Mesmerised, her eyes locked onto the images on the screen. An earthquake in the ocean, its magnitude measuring in at ‘twenty-three thousand Hiroshima sized bombs’ causing a tidal wave forty foot high, its watery fingers grasping at the shore, breaking with the puissance of a racehorse, moving swiftly round the corner, taking the final hedge

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Teen Poppy By Ryan Coull

I came across the troll yesterday, quite by chance. I’d been clearing the loft, and there it was at the bottom of a tattered box containing miscellany from my youth, that impudent smile I hadn’t seen in many years. Finding it brought to mind a much larger troll, for want of a better word, an

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Single Guy Scrubs Up By Gurmeet Singh

Somewhere in the USA, Late September 2017 That losing the show wouldn’t be the worst thing, that there would be financial ruin, bullshit stories, public vilification, name-calling, getting spat at (because yes people do that), private conversations with jerks in dark moments telling him good on you for speaking up — that things would not

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The Tabriz by Robert Slentz-Kesler

Cassandra heard Dean rough-housing with the dog upstairs—the barking and clomping were louder than the rumble of the dryer—and when she emerged from the basement with a loaded laundry basket and glanced through the front hall to the living room, her mouth dropped open. Her fiancé (clothed, thank God) was behind Koshi, their yellow lab,

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Rent-A-Body By Sean Nishi

Franny always said our pastries had the consistency of dried paper mache. At night we’d wrap the leftovers and leave them outside for the homeless. Not even raccoons would go near those things. One by one we had to let our staff go. We consulted a financial advisor, who said our best course of action

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Paradice is a Mystery By William Bateman

Maureen decided we’d redecorate the lounge. Our decor was no longer “chic”. I didn’t know what that meant but I argued it was quite chic indeed if it meant I didn’t have to tear up a perfectly good shag carpet. “It’s very ‘65, you know,” she said with disdain as if ’65 was universally agreed

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The Blue Room By Jessica White

It was a beautiful baby blue that made the walls look like an icing covered birthday cake. Ella enjoyed making shapes with her brush, a beach scene with a starfish, then a palm tree on a desert island, before sweeping the scenes away with a big roller. With each stroke, she felt a little more

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