
“I’m gonna kill you sons of a bitch,” he said, when he saw the torn sheet.
“I’m gonna kill you sons of a bitch,” he said, when he saw the torn sheet.
“I found him on a cold day in a slow spring.” New flash fiction from Dez Walker
A collection of all the articles we published last month for those who like their magpies’ tidings as an issue.
And then I knew, after sign upon sign upon sign, I knew as surely as I knew my own self, that I had a ghost living with me.
Some things, when you didn’t understand them, you didn’t try to figure them out. Sometimes you just didn’t want to know.
Both living on their nerves, growing thinner as Tom grew fatter, they refused follow-up visits from the authorities. She missed her post-natal check-up, and they did not attend the vaccination clinic. The authorities became concerned.
All night long they clung to each other, bobbing on a sea of whisky and memories and dreams, lashed to a floating spar that sank and rose and sank and rose again.
“Maybe this meant something, maybe it didn’t.”
When bells ring out the time, the time passes strangely. The space between tolls seems impossible, like it’s hanging, waiting for something. For me.
These phantasms are concocted from a little kernel of conscience, or guilt, or fear, or loneliness. Sometimes others see them, sometimes they don’t, they’re shifting and dreamlike, and they operate according to their own rules. They’re unreliable narrators. They’re wise or foolish, in turn; they speak in riddles, they speak a questionable truth, changing and suspect, like all truths.