:: Fiction

Mother Tongue published 24/11/2016

In the years she lived in countries that were not her own, she dreamed often of losing her language.

By Shona McCombes.

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The Raising of Harold Mueller published 23/11/2016

I held myself steady, before I took another good breath, then rested my hand on top of his. This time, I kept it there. Harold Mueller felt nothing like he’d felt when he was walking among the living. His skin was as cold as a pound of hamburger meat.

With my hand steady, I whispered only one word.

“Arise.”

By Amy Bridges.

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Leftovers published 21/11/2016

‘The guests applauded after each brief narrative, each one better than the last, if that were even possible, each story peppered with words like “corndog” and “Pop Tart”, and characters called Hermit Bob and “the girl in purple”. They laughed at the funny moments—of which there were plenty—and at the spoonerisms, Huck Finn becoming Fuck Hinn, and they wondered why that spoonerism had never occurred to them before, it seemed so obvious, but that was why the famous lady author was so famous, because she saw things that no one else saw and heard things that no one else heard; she had the ability to explain the unexplainable in the simplest of words wrought into beautiful sentences.’

By Catherine Brereton.

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The Oddity published 20/11/2016

I had to agree: “Carbs are righteous.”

“Yeah they are, I love carbs more than life.”

“Without carbs, life itself would be impossible.”

“So true, EJ. I just want to smash loaves of fresh baked bread into my face all day long.”

“What?”

“You know, not even eat it. Just smash my face with those carbs.”

Chapter 4 of EJ Spode‘s novel The Oddity.

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Fish Stocking published 17/11/2016

By English: Jean B. Sabalot [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

The first weekend of January I walk in the park by my apartment and arrive at the smell of pines.
 
By Tina Xiang.

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Crevices published 14/11/2016

The fearful snail was bobbing its head and his carefully rolled hem reverted back to its own place with a sigh of relief when A smiled. She smiled like a foreign woman smiles to a man in a foreign country. The curious snail had shot a chitinous love dart towards his mate. But just like in the animal world, there was no organ to receive the dart.

By Simina Neagu.

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The Oddity published 13/11/2016

“Get the fuck off my property or I will ream out your asses with my God damn Remington 12 gauge! And I am not kidding — it has a full fucking choke on it!” I don’t know why he added the part about the choke. All that was going to do is narrow the spray pattern and make it less likely he would hit us.

Chapter 3 of EJ Spode‘s novel The Oddity.

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The Oddity published 06/11/2016

Funmaker then actually seemed amused. “What’s the matter, you never saw Cool Hand Luke? He ate forty!”

“Gary, those were fucking eggs, Cool Hand Luke ate forty eggs not gizzards!”

“Same thing bro.”

“Also, Cool Hand Luke is fictional! He is. Not. Real.”

Climax broke in, “Jeezus EJ calm down. You’re gonna herniate yourself. Forget about the fucking eggs and gizzards already.”

Chapter 2 of EJ Spode‘s novel The Oddity.

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January 2003 published 02/11/2016

I say “rumble”, but it was stranger than that, a sound not heard with the ears, but with the muscles of the heart and in the echo chambers of every vein, and not heard so much as it is remembered, recalled from a childhood’s accumulation of dog snarls and near-hits from trains and rolling cars driven by foul-drunk men well practiced at backhands, and it brings from those times much the same reaction: the widening of the eyes, the cold ache of paralysis, screams so remote-sounding it is as if they belong to another boy in another room.

By Spence Powell.

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On Horses and on Sea and on the Island of Malhado published 31/10/2016

I doubt the shape of this world. Where we find ourselves. As a band of Indians appear to us in these woods with their reeds and with their plume and their sounds all odd and fucked to hear so also we appear to them with our leather and our crossbow and our belts and to them also the sound we carry has no truck with them no weight at all except that it is not a silence there between us so our exchange in these woods is of a slim bag of gestures and through this we are both commanded to gauge if we are here in peace or have we come here to be against thee. How has a man come to be the judge of this?

Excerpts from Russell Persson‘s The Way of Florida.

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