This was in 1974, and the light had that granular diffusion, the colours muzzy and polaroid-bright. I took Route 1 north along the coast towards Fort Bragg; Nixon was on the radio, and bombs in England and Italy, and massacres in Israel. All the way, the hired car hot above the blaze of the ocean, I was thinking about the question I would ask. Read more …
Stories
Encounter by Ian Breckon
Wednesday, July 8th, 2009Tags: Ian Breckon, writing
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The Killing Hour of Low Tide by Richard Makin
Wednesday, July 8th, 2009I am writing on the beach as he approaches. In one hand he holds a white teapot, at a tilt to spill green tea on the shingle. In the other two mugs of the same white.
It’s spilling. Read more …
Tags: Richard Makin, writing
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Fancy by Julia Collins
Wednesday, July 8th, 2009Cassandra took a deep breath before turning the key in Elspeth’s front door. She did this every time to prepare herself for the fug of dust, stale urine and faded toilet water that infected her Aunt’s flat.
The day had turned out to be warm since she had boarded the train at Brighton, and she was regretting having put on her heavy wool London coat. Read more …
Tags: Julie Collins, writing
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Bosses by Bronwyn Griffiths
Wednesday, July 8th, 2009The postman brings a parcel. But it is not for me: it’s for my son. Some computer part, I think. I wasn’t expecting a parcel but all the same, I feel bad that it’s not mine. I would have liked a surprise. Things have been so predictable lately.
“I haven’t seen you lately,” I say.
“I’ve been ill,” the postman says.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Read more …
Tags: Bronwyn Griffiths, fiction, short story, writing
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A Glow by Juliet West
Wednesday, July 8th, 2009The daffodils were spilled across the landing carpet and the window was wide open, letting in a blast of cold night air. The glass vase was rocking on the sill, horizontal, leaking its last drips of cloudy water.
I walked towards the window, an image flaring in my mind: your body crumpled on the patio, skull smashed, arms bent into crazy angles.
You wouldn’t…surely?
I looked down onto the slabs of York stone. In the darkness I could make out the iron bench. The watering can. The terracotta pot with the tulip shoots bursting through.
No body. Read more …
Tags: Juliet West, short story, writing
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