Spring sunlight lands on them precisely, like the light and shade of those Impressionist paintings you loved. And I came to love them. Here the…
Team Splonk is nominating two stories from Issue 8 for Pushcart prizes: In This Tale of a Suburban Tiger, the Part of the Mother is…
Caroline hadn’t seen the cat for days. Jim said he didn’t want to hear any more about it, even though she’d only mentioned it the…
Bhí Sadhbh trom ar pháiste nuair a d’fhág Fionn le dul ag sealgaireacht. Bolg mór lán uirthi. An t-am ag druidim léi. Sheas sí, lámh…
I plant a graveyard of feathers on my tongue. Watch them sprout into birds without wings. I could pluck up these flightless fowl, snuff out…
Mist rises from the sodden earth and I wonder from what creatures it rises, think of the bodies that lie submerged within its belly, the…
The Dee spills out, all salty silt and sandbanks. The sudden tilt is disconcerting; the jib collapses, flapping uselessly, like a fulmar with a broken…
You say a rainbow doesn’t work for you, my extraordinary girl whose birth tag said ‘male.’ ‘How many colours do you need?’ I ask, thinking…
Cut a long piece of paper At my bedside she used read me poems. Poems that grew from a sparkle in her eye and exploded…
‘This is not a day of celebration for the Church.’ Thus spake the priest, as the young couple looked up, and St Bernadette looked down.…