Tag: Short

Clay By Rachel Sloan

From: k*****@*******.com Sent: Monday, 15 May, 20— 6.38 pm To: m*****@*****.com Subject: vase Dear M, It was such a surprise to bump into you at the fair on Saturday. To be honest, I nearly didn’t go over to your stand, but I overheard you talking to another customer about your process and your favourite glazes,

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Tourist Vans by Rajiv Ramkhalawan

I am that kid on a grubby, dirt street in Bihar. Where rats scamper in sheets of blackness along channels of moss laden ditches. Where throngs of decrepit, wooden stalls, not more than a foot away from these nostril-filling canals, populate the air with–quite paradoxically–aromatic street food. Litti accompanied by a side dish of roasted

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A Slow Twirl, Downwards By Jack Houston

No, I don’t think he is alright you know, limbs lying awkward like that, left leg splayed out like he’s sleeping, his right ankle up by his buttocks, right knee pointing inward like he needs to wee. His left arm’s up and over his face, but I think he’s still breathing. It’s hard to tell,

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Gun Dog by E J Saleby

Traditional British nursery rhyme about magpies: One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy. He was out in the back field, shooting at magpies. She heard the crack and echo from inside the house and held her breath until she saw the birds rise, black and white against the

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The Inheritance By Eleanor Johnson

She watched the car pull up to the side of the station, positioning itself noncommittally by the black wrought iron gate that lined the main road. She spotted it immediately. It’s light blue body distinct against the dense, suffocating rain that obscured the other nondescript vehicles; opaque slabs of colour that were sliding in and

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Watch What Happens By John Means

Why did life have to be like this?  I had been through one relationship after another, mostly parting as “friends,” and I did not get it–on a train to nowhere, stopping at stations. With Jeanne we stopped once a year.  I could want her all I wanted, and that was all.  I could hear in

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Anto Jackson is a Prick By Dara Thomas Higgins

For a last meal it was hardly the stuff of legend. The old fella chipped a couple of spuds, threw them in the fryer and popped a chop under the grill, followed by a digestif of Barry’s tea and a smoke out the garden. I was lately back in the family home because me and

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The Words of All Our Fires By Stephanie Dupal

The pandemic raged on in blue and red states alike, and our youth watched mountains burn and burn, while the year reigned as a colossus risen from hell: it brought deaths and the cloister of quarantine, riots and protests to ignite and incense bodily fires through sleeplessness and troubled starts. Breathing became a privilege for

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The First Rule of Comedy by Adam Slavny

When people ask Miri Zestler why she became a stand-up comedian, she tells them about Gill. She met Gill one evening at the tail end of her Physics and Philosophy degree when he performed at the Oxford Student Union. She watched him bewail and thunder onstage, fascinated by this man who had travelled the length

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The Golden Button By Peter-Adrian Altini

David watches the garden boy from his bedroom window. He peers through the bougainvillea, branches pruned to near nakedness, his breath forming asymmetrical shapes on the glass. The boy bends his body towards the earth, churns dark soils with the blunt edge of his spade. Clumps appear in the ground surrounding the rose bushes. Ripples

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