:: Fiction

The Tree. Which Tree? published 08/12/2016

We must stop projecting our own sorrows onto trees, onto young women, we must refrain from shoving our stupid dreams down someone else’s pipe, we must stop taking photographs of another person’s house.

By Sohini Basak.

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Midwinter published 07/12/2016

Boy squints. A doe speckled in ice. A flash. Cordite. They blink neon. Father moves; Boy hoofs through drifts like surf.

By Zac Allard.

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Li Fan published 06/12/2016

The residents of Pleasant, too new to have known her when she lived on the block, pick up the stray bottles and cans at the bottom of the street. An ambulance arrives to take the old woman away.

By Alexandra Chang.

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The Oddity published 04/12/2016

But anyway, just how do you change the clocks of memory? Do you forget to wind them? Do they lose time? Or is it like you have to reset them when you change the time zones of memory? You know, you remember it from here and then you remember it from there. From a different zone. I rather think the clocks of memory must reset themselves. But sometimes it takes us a while to adjust.

Chapter 6 of EJ Spode‘s novel The Oddity.

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Black Bear published 02/12/2016

He’d eaten the last of the seeds.
He was hollow, full of holes, hair falling out.
Soon would be winter, the world’s sunflower gone ripe.

By Justin Bendell.

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Never Trust Your Instincts published 29/11/2016

If you act like you don’t need money, people will be more likely to give it to you.

By Tara Roeder.

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The Oddity published 27/11/2016

For forty days and forty nights it rained dicks. Bags and bags of dicks. And the people were like, what the fuck, God, what did we ever do to you? But he was too busy showering their world with penises to hear their pleas. What fucked up days those were… there were dicks everywhere. Dicks in the trees, dicks in the streets, piles of dicks that people raked up and left for the giant trucks that hauled them off to who knows where. It was fucked. up.

Chapter 5 of EJ Spode‘s novel The Oddity.

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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.


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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