Leaves were compressed against the curb in small mounds, like discarded wet shoes in every shade of leather, though it wasn’t raining now. Sasha pulled…
Your father’s mother was Agnes. She came from a rural townland, all vowels and phlegm to say. Her home house was a series of small…
Our Editor-in-Chief, Nuala O’Connor, was interviewed by Jim Harrington about what Splonk likes to see in its inbox. Read the interview here.
Splonk Issue 3 submissions will open on Saint Patrick’s Day, 17th March, and close on the 13th of April 2020. If you were published in the last issue…
From the chair you ask, ‘Any dreams?’ A beach. In Durban-but-not-Durban. More Aegean than Indian Ocean. Rocks glow indigo under water lucid as Bombay Sapphire.…
Red cloak, blue fruit bruised and sweating, and the forest, washed amber but growing colder, full of snarls and a stream’s sighing and ghosts stirring…
I’d been pretending, these last few days, that you’d run away to your sister’s again, and when I saw you drifting through our home it…
Childhood afternoons we lay on the hillside, staring up at the shifting white cottonpuff clouds of summer, pretending our eyes held magic and we were…
We were greedy in that city; we were voracious. We wanted so many stars – more than the lofty heavens could provide – so we…
Katrina’s dad borrowed a bowler hat for her frae his pal. But ma dad doesnae ken people like that. Mum said no’ to worry and…