Penguin Song by Alison Theresa Gibson
She sings, her eyes closed, pouring life into that long perfect note. Her fingers twist the silk of her skirt into cascades of colour, tightening, tightening as the note lifts. And then…
She sings, her eyes closed, pouring life into that long perfect note. Her fingers twist the silk of her skirt into cascades of colour, tightening, tightening as the note lifts. And then…
Even with the lights on, it was still a dark corridor that stretched on and on like forever, and also, sometimes, like my bubble-gum—she would’ve differed and said something like it stretched…
She was the one closest to retirement, the one who sat tapping her biro on her thigh at staff meetings, the one who never bought biscuits for the staff room but ate…
Stacks/ Jerry’s halfway through his second volunteer shift at the library, wheeling his cart between the stacks. Collecting books to be shelved is the only thing he knows how to do so…
I moved into my inherited bungalow a month ago. Curb appeal? None whatsoever, but still a winner compared to one more night of crashing on Morgan’s sex-soaked futon. The house’s mud-colored shingle…
He thinks he has me. From the sun-roof, light cascades into the office and splinters off the snub of his silver gun. Man’s knee-jerk reaction to violence is as clichéd as a…
I came home at 4:42am; I remember it quite clearly. I opened all the doors to let in the sweet relief of the summer night, then went straight to the bathroom. That’s…
Before they viewed the house, the estate agent had barely mentioned the cove. This, in Francine’s mind, had been a mistake. For the house by itself really wasn’t much to shout about.…
When I tell people about it now, they ask me why I never saw the signs. Like those color blindness tests teachers would hand out in elementary school, my friends assume the…
Aika had gone before I woke up. All that was left inside our place was my box of clothes, the last of the tools in the garage, and the Colt .45 I…
The clown’s bulky shoes squeak as it makes its way over the worn calcified land. The miniature bells sewed loosely to the faded periwinkle jacket jingle limply. Its face is a moon-white,…
The purple tulips you bought have opened wide, like mouths shouting. The yellow stamens are angry tonsils. You’re upstairs on the computer compiling a soundtrack for the party on Saturday night. Laura’s…