Iceblink by Mary Morrissy Down below you could hear them revelling, hallooing. Boots hoofing on boards, someone’s birthday. Wouldn’t half-mind being down there with them, instead of here, perched in the crow’s nest, blowing on your perished hands. You and…
Water Over the Tunnel
Water Over the Tunnel by Sian Brighal This ain’t no rock or land I’m familiar with. It’s as though the stone has steeped too long in the river above it, becoming soft and corrupted on what the city adds to…
Y2K
(Content warning: this story covers recent history & mass shootings.) Y2K by Charles Duffie The latch on the bathroom door rattles like the lid on a boiling pot when Papa’s cooking. Kaamisha squeezes her eyes and prays to wake up…
The Blockcutter
The Blockcutter by Sarah Smith Apprenticed at fourteen; he never minded the early starts. Mornings, he shrugged his jacket on and pocketed his piece box. At the corner of Braehead Cottages and Mid Street, he wrapped his muffler close to…
Whispers, behind closed doors
Whispers, behind closed doors by Rosanna Hildyard Many years ago, back in our green days, we played at the new game of tennis, dressed up for May masques and dared call King Harry’s wife ‘the Spanish woman’ almost openly behind…
From Darjeeling, with Love
From Darjeeling, with Love by Kiira Rhosair April 1948, Happy Valley Estate, north Darjeeling. Koyli teeters forward into the bush. It’s the thirst. So intense, that her tongue has dried into the roof and she’s afraid her throat will crack…
The Landmines Up Near Sapper Hill Sing
The Landmines Up Near Sapper Hill Sing by Santino Prinzi The day before we’d finished our stint de-mining the Falklands, Yousef lost his legs. He knew the dangers, we all did, and it weren’t as if he were taking risks.…
Love in the Margins
Love in the Margins by MaryPat Campbell This wintry day I set to work. My skill with inking the great capitals and minor letters improves each season. Two decades ago, my father brought me to this monastery. Our long journey…
The Fur-puller
The Fur-puller by Peter Burns Rose and her boy been standing in line for two hours now, and young Billy hasn’t managed ten minutes without coughing. Not that anyone in that line would notice, their own lives being a world…
A Piecer’s Tale
A Piecer’s Tale by Christine Collinson Mr. Hendrick is watching me. “Work faster, girl!” he bellows over the clack-clack of the looms. I heap loose fibres into the sack, just like every day, and hold my misery tightly inside. He…