Tag: writer

FICTION: Can You Eat the Wind? by Sian Hughes

‘You haven’t lost the pregnancy,’ says the sonographer. ‘But I can’t find a heartbeat.’ The sonographer’s sentences don’t belong together. Amy notices that she has a tan face and a white neck, like parts from different bodies. ‘Can I see?’ she says. The sonographer points at the screen. In a corner of Amy’s womb, floating

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FICTION: Write About What You Know by Ian M. Evans

“‘It was a dark and stormy night’—My god, Kevin, I can’t believe my eyes or my ears. You can’t start a short story like that. That’s a joke start. A writing spoof. Good lord, man, it’s the way stories start on the Peanuts comic strip. Everyone in the world knows that’s the worst cliché in

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FICTION: Painkillers by Andy West

Mum will be here soon. She never used to visit, but does now. She said when I came off drugs it was like being told someone she’d buried had been brought back to life, but that she couldn’t revive the dead just because I’d done a thirteen week programme. She eventually came around to my

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FICTION: Enclaves by Aaron Emmel

I closed the window against the smoke and the sound of distant gunfire. As the shields slid up to block out the sky I felt restless for the world outside. Maybe just a walk around the block, I told myself. My eyes went to the gloves and respirator mask hanging by the door. But I

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FICTION: Silent Witness by Andrea Hardaker

I honestly couldn’t say whether the bird was injured or not when she found it. V often stumbled across animals that were hurt. Like the time she’d found a cat with not one but two broken legs. She never did explain where she got it from and I was too afraid to ask. But anyway,

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FICTION: Just Before The Autumn Term by Nathan Good

That summer, all anybody could talk about was the ghost of little Ellie Clark. She was everywhere. If you had seen her then you had a story to tell, and if you hadn’t – well maybe you had a story to tell anyway. Maybe you’d heard from a neighbour, or a friend of a neighbour,

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FICTION: Variations of Molly by Corrina O’Beirne

Sunday 24th September 11p.m. Dominic, or the purveyor of lies as I now think of him, left me three weeks ago. No warning signs. No argument or chance to talk things over. Just a scribbled note. That’s our goodbye. What kills me is Dominic spends a fortune on bespoke stationery, Mont Blanc pens, Japanese stamp

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FICTION: Hell by Rick White

On the morning of the funeral, Raymond rises as usual and urinates laboriously. With effort, he contracts his bladder to try and maintain a constant stream. His aim is off, and he renders splashes of yellowy-brown water across the antique canvas of the bathroom floor. It seems to be taking longer to piss these days,

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FICTION: All the Pieces of Shattered Glass by Matt Kendrick

The Crosspatch Clock ticking. Temperature below the acceptable minimum and not even the slightest sign of the heating being turned on. The chair is lumpy and smells of someone else’s urine, someone else’s sweat. Body odour in the atmosphere. Over-boiled cabbages emanating from the kitchens. And cleaner’s bleach liberally applied to each and every surface

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FICTION: Rewind The Film by Dan Patton

It is said that true darkness is simply the absence of light; it possesses no texture, no subtlety, no poetic license. But this dark is more t­han absence. Imagine: The inky blue-black of a starless night; the womb-like static of dreamless sleep. Soon there will be time and with it narrative, but first time needs

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