The bachelor enters to a bar on the back alley. He notices that the tune in the Chinese restaurant is chasing him. The happy rhythm of ‘La en gañadora’ is coiling around him in the dim light. ‘La engañadora’ means the fraudster in Spanish. But it was translated in the US as “Anything Can Happen When You’re in Havana”.
A short story by Hiromi Suzuki.
During these lulls he would approach the walls warily and place his ear against them, listening to the slumbering monster on the other side — its fresh breath of eternal rehashing — as though he were back in the catacombs. Sometimes he placed his sweaty hands flush with the wall on either side of his head and they would leave marks resembling prehistoric cave paintings.
A film by Julie Kamon based on a text by Andrew Gallix.
The success of his operation can only be explained, I have come to think, by the effects of the plague he was recruited to prevent, this plague being already more widespread than assumed. It was down to the plague, I thought, that had already weakened the populace and rendered it pliable, or it was due to the bewitching effects of his presence, the stage presence, of this man from Whitby who none would refuse.
An excerpt from Plague Theatre by Ansgar Allen.
Recently, I won’t say exactly when but embarrassingly late in life, I realized that books had been lying to me.
A short story by Jackson Arn.
She was given M, who might yet prove to be exactly this. She periodically chops off her hair, with her eyes closed, asking her son to what degree she might be judged a work of art. She sings to him at night about setting her curves on fire with tongues of the deepest currents. His mother is sculpted from hard granite. His father is the white water that thrashes at her ankles and polishes the surface of her stomach.
By Loie Rawding.
The Controller told me to sort the good apples from the bad. She told me that good apples were good apples and bad apples were soggy and brown. She told me it would be simple.
A short story by Clare Fisher.
In the parking lot I could see and feel right away that something was wrong, car-wise. It wasn’t just the smoke from the trunk, or the way the breeze carried the smoke. It wasn’t just the earth tilted at a weird angle, or the size of the birds, or the low sound of their call, or the blank color of the sky. It wasn’t just the incessant hum coming from nowhere, or the sweet sick smell of something like old honey, or the soft vibrations that made my ears ache.
Knausgaard burning, that was part of it.
That was just part of it.
By Nicholas Rombes.
Not able to stop or control worrying? So restless that it is hard to sit still? Feeling afraid as if something awful might happen? Feeling tired or having little energy? Trouble concentrating on things, such as reading the newspaper or watching TV? Moving or speaking so slowly that other people could have noticed? If you’re 16 or over, this mood self-assessment can help you better understand how you’ve been feeling recently. With each question, think about how you’ve been feeling over the last q̵̧̛̛͙̱̝̣͒͋̔̈́́̾̈́̎̿̚̚͠͠u̷̦̲͗̀̔̀̿̾͠à̵̡̨̧̡̛̳̮̬͎͉̥͔̝̈́̀̍͘͠͝r̴̹̙͚͙̺̀̒̂̑͘͝ą̷̛̜̣̙̺̪̲̻̙̤͖̌̈́͋́̐̀̾̄̐̀̔̋͘͝n̴̛̲̤̙̘̼͓͈͑̆͆͌̂̿̾̏̚t̸̢̤͓̳̰̺̩̤̳̪̪̜̫̲͗̀̈͝ͅi̷͕̥͕̠͓͌̃̍͗̈́̽̄̒̈̏̏̈́͠ņ̷̥͓̜̗̲̯̩̱̹̙͊̓͛̈́̏̄̇̏e̵̛̔̃͆̃͌̈̉̏̆͠.
New fiction by Mazin Saleem.
In much the same way as people ignore their own noses, Felix Reeve had always ignored the creeping imposition of his cheeks and ears. But whether he ignored it or not, it was a fact: he was folding in on himself.
A short story by Jordan De Visser.
Virgil told me, or George told Cathleen, that he died in the bath, darkness all around him and then he smiled a small smile and he lit a match and you could see his lips, wavering between folds of night and in the small waves of the bath, his snot yellow teeth pin point refractions.
A short story by Sarah Coates.
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