Offcuts

by George Sandison

The legs stood in bay 999, row ZZZ, the forgotten last entry in the store. Unnecessary items of commerce were stored nearby, the ones that existed to demonstrate every need could be met, whether or not the need existed: a book of random digits, yodelling cucumbers, costumes for cats. Said found the rubber nails being ordered and started the long walk back to the centre.

The Other Side

by Michael Kelly

Could you love some other me? She always had faith, Marianne. Not a fervent, fanatical faith. Just a belief that there was something else. Something more. A spiritual afterlife, perhaps. Less inclined to theological doctrines, and more science-based.

Today is Tuesday

by John Linwood Grant

Today is Wednesday. Carl does not remember the day before Wednesday; he never does, but he’s used to that. He accepts it as part of life. He doesn’t understand the shape of clouds, either, or the importance of television; aeroplanes – and the concept of flight – baffle him. There are strange blanks in his mind, for no obvious reason. And he has not been able to taste salt since he was a child.

My Brother's Keeper

by Casilda Ferrante

My brother Elijah is slumped in the chair, his hands curled into fists on the armrest, knuckles inked with black script. One hand says EVIL, the other hand says GOOD. I was beside him when he got those tattooed. He thought of me as the needle hummed. One brother evil, the other good; I don’t know which one I am anymore.

The Savages

by David Gullen

Afternoon shaded towards evening, the hour before dusk. Up in their room Jin could not concentrate. Worms coiled inside their soft carapace, a trembling anxiety. The inevitable was coming. Tomorrow or the day after, perhaps by some miracle the day after that. The course of their entire future was about to be set, their own desires counted for nothing.

Glist

by Ian Hunter

I have given the dark man the affectionate name of Glist, although I would never dare say that to what passes for his face. I choose to call him that because his true twelve-lettered name is practically unpronounceable for me with my slight speech impediment and I always get it wrong. Besides, he has a glistening sheen to his features, hence my pet name for him, although in truth I am more like his pet, something to be tolerated. For now.

Now Hard By Downbarrow

by Peter Haynes

You wouldn’t recognise Downbarrow now, dear. Preparations are well under way. They’ve done the fingerposts: this way to the beach, this way to the Chosen Places, this way to the facilities, and so on. The Temple of the Unborn God is nearly built. Just the roofline, cladding and drainage snags to work out. Mick’s done a lovely job for something that’s only going to be used once, but you know what he says: the reward is in the work. Remember what a great finish he gave our extension? I hope he still feels that way in a few days’ time.

Two Drifters

by Ashley Stokes

The way the old man stressed the ‘unt’ in ‘runt’ as he shouted at the street fundraiser was you in your prime, you in your thin room and the thing you showed me there. On the other side of the road, I shuddered to a standstill. People ghosted through and around me. It wouldn’t be you. It hadn’t been you in all the other streets I’d thought I glimpsed or heard you. You’d left your mark on me, that’s all.

Something Nice For Tea

by Francoise Harvey

There is a hearse in Asda car park. It’s long: nose tucked well out of the way of passing traffic, bum sticking out into the space behind. Someone has parked their scooter in the half-space that’s left. Smug. The hearse has dust on its shiny black coat.

Kanaida

by Simon Bestwick

The city was burning. The American bombers came at will now, and firestorms swept the cities of Japan on an almost daily basis. The factories were ashes, the docks silent graveyards; there were only the people left to burn, yet still the gaijin came. And all because of Kanaida.

Museum of Glass

by Marisca Pichette

At the bottom left corner of the cornfield, there is a museum of glass. Of course, it is not always a cornfield. Every other season, we grow potatoes there, and before that it was tousled and free, a rolling expanse of aster and daisies and black-eyed Susans, their bodies warping with the wind and springing back again, bright and glittering in the sun. Before that, we expect it was just another section of wood – maple and birch and oak and spruce, grape vines tangling in their branches, reaching for the sun.

Red Sky at Morning

by Tim Major

‘I will, I will, I will,’ John Gostling said to Lowell with an expression of reassurance he had practised in the mirror. ‘I’ll be right as rain. You go now.’ His son, one foot planted on Phoebe’s deck, scrutinised him carefully, then looked around at the barren landscape of Longstone Rock and finally up at the lighthouse. He puffed out his cheeks and nodded.

Mama Leaf

by Tiffani Angus

Mama Leaf had girls enough. Nearly every year, sure as the ice cracked tree limbs along the ridgeline high above the sheltered valley where the Leafs had lived for generations, another baby girl would take her place in the cradle before the hearth. But Mister Leaf insisted that the family needed a boy child to be whole, to carry on the family name.

On a Bed of Flag Leaves

by Steve Toase

Sally lifts Bridget one way, and then the other, to slide sodden sheets from under the sleeping child. The water is thick with pondweed and smears of half-rotten leaves. Stench latching in her throat, she bundles up the bedding and chucks it on the floor knowing she will have to change it three more times through the night. Oblivious, Bridget sleeps on, lips painted with algae and bubbled with frogspawn.

The Lottery

by Rym Kechacha

It is Easter Monday in our hilltop village of Castelmenardo and the church bells greet the evening with six long, solemn tolls. Our grandmothers, who have been elbow deep in pasta dough since dawn, wrap themselves in warm shawls and slip out of our houses. We sip on oily black liqueurs and discuss all that has happened in our village since Christmas. Our children gather up the bones of our Easter feasts and feed them carefully to the dogs.

The Alchemist's Child

by Lucy Hounsom

He imagines that beneath the surface of the everyday, there is a tide which carries all the bitterness of the world. He heard its rattle in his brother’s chest; watched it glinting on his father’s cheeks when gold couldn’t buy a cure. Sometimes it is there at night when he is alone, and he wonders what it would be like to have the warmth of another beside him, breathing him in.

The End of Hope Street

by Malcolm Devlin

Number Five

The Potterton house became unliveable at a quarter past three on Saturday afternoon. Lewis Potterton had been sitting in the lounge reading the business section of the Daily Telegraph when he first saw the symptoms, but when he got to the hallway to call his wife and daughter, he saw they were already hurrying downstairs, his wife Lydia fresh from the shower and still wrapped in a towel.

All the Letters in his Van

by Ian Steadman

I almost laugh at the man who steps out. I hear Debbie snort beside me. He’s short and stocky, and his nose sticks straight out like the end of a broom handle. His jacket appears to be cut from blue felt, a row of gold-coloured buttons adorning the front, one of them so chipped and faded the plastic shows through. The trousers are of the same material, cut straight without any semblance of fashion or styling. Then there’s the hat. It looks like a child’s dressing-up outfit, but it’s hard to imagine any child wanting to dress as a traffic warden. Sown inexpertly to the front is a Royal Mail badge