It passes the time, pondering their salvation and moulding everything by it. I bear witness every night: ripples rousing the bay, then the swollen crop…
They’ve mud on their shoes, these city men in shirts and ties. Derwa sees that, sees how they circle like secretary birds around Old Man…
The impacts took place between the 16th and 22nd July, 1994, when your dad must’ve been orbiting on elliptical paths between the NICU and me…
Tell us a story of the crowds – rammed and jammed and stood still… H pulls his hand back from the overhead rail in the…
There is an emptying. Moon by moon they crack from hatches, mutate into puckered tentacles of faces, upturned, awaiting the fever-clutch of mother country’s helicoptered…
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…
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…