Issue 49 Coming Soon!

I thought I'd list the contributors and throw in little samples from their stories, too.

“It’s a decent little engagement, what with the world situation.” That was how Gerald Stackpoole’s agent, the lugubrious Raymond Duck, had sold the summer season on Hemsby pier, back in March. “I admit, it’s not the Palladium, but it gives you a chance to feather the nest in case…” and he’d waved his hand vaguely, sketching the multiplicity of unknowns that 1939 might hold in store. And in that poky office four floors up on the Charing Cross Road, it had seemed like a sound enough strategy. In Hemsby, however, at the wrong end of August, Gerald had his doubts.

'The Woofle Dust' by Steve Duffy

To kick off, I’ll have to admit how much I loved to watch Gregory sitting so elegantly in his office chair, his slim legs crossed, that charming smile on his face, talking the good talk. It was easy to admire his fatal facility, the knack of being able to speak well on almost any subject, to entertain, inform or divert attention from an awkward question. It’s a skill I all too obviously lack. I’ve never had any charm or elegance myself. I’m good with facts and figures, that’s all, and I like to think I can recognise talent when I see it.

'All Talk' by Rosalie Parker

The rain had stopped by the time the tour had ended. Robert, the eldest of the siblings, surged ahead of the others and proceeded deeper into the carefully manicured gardens, evidently glad to be outside, despite the damp that still hung in the air and clung to everything like a second skin. His brother and sister squealed loudly and chased after him. An elderly couple admiring an intricate display of peonies moved out of the way just in time.

'Another One to Love Them' by David Buchan

I learned of Candler’s death and coming funeral by way of a small, black-bordered card that lacked both envelope and stamp. It fell free as I gathered up my post from the communal mat, and at first I took it for an advert for a taxi company, since they often leave such cards, but then I saw my name, and that of Candler, and read on.

'Candler's Ceremony' by Sam Hicks

The two of them were standing around under the trees, watching their dogs sniff each other’s arses, dogs’ tails wagging, snuffling around in the ferns, running circles round each other. John was doing most of the speaking of course, but Mark didn’t mind, and liked the fact that it took any pressure off him to make small talk, or any other kind of talk. John was a retired planning officer, grey and late 60s, and rarely dressed in anything other than Mountain Warehouse outward-bound gear.

'Cave Canem' by James Machin

The blue and yellow bus splashed on around its circuit of the inner city. The conductor sang out the stops: Moon Street, Carlotta Street, Baston’s Chocolate Factory. Familiar names, places he knew. The rhythmic chanting helped him to breathe, like listening to a song on the radio. So now Marty felt calm. He could sit here forever, right in the front seat, at the top, sliding round and round through the narrow grey streets. The lights inside the top of the bus were very faint, just glowing orange. The duffle coat covered everything. His hood was pulled up over his head, but that must look normal enough in this weather. 

From 'Four Vignettes' by Jane Jakeman

“Hippity-hoppity-hey, he’ll dance the air today,

With a quick-knot-crack, his neck will snap.”

Singing their song, the little gang of children followed the bonneted woman down the hovel-bordered lane. The woman whose son was due to hang the next day. Then to be gibbetted and, finally, to be buried in unhallowed ground, staked, despised, and forever condemned to hell.

'Godless' by Sam Dawson

The Jackson girls had gone missing. Carla, fifteen, and Denise, thirteen, had not come home from school at midday as usual, and the men of the town gathered at the Jackson’s place to form a search party. There was Ramsey Chandler, the police chief and nominally in charge, Adam Jackson the girls’ father, and ten or twelve others—many of whom were only present for the gossip and would slink away should an actual expedition be needed, Chandler knew. He was still hoping it wouldn’t come to that. When he’d first heard the news, and knew what might be expected of him, Chandler’s first action had been to refill his hip flask, drink from it, then refill it again.

'Not That Kind of Place' by James Everington