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Take a seat, you are now in the village square. Enjoy!
Runnin’ the River by Trish Nicholson

  In collaboration with Trish Nicholson, the New Zealander author of A Biography of Story, A Brief History of Humanity, we will be publishing a three-part coaching series on “the use of voice in storytelling” – which is intended to help writers of fiction navigate and master how voice and dialogue is used to capture the attention of their readers. As a prelude to this, we have decided to publish this flash story, Runnin’ the River which is mentioned…

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The Crossroads at Jijiga

  Yonas is cross and munching saltbush. He swivels his head towards the rusting armaments left many moons ago by the Somalis and then back towards Habesha and Bworo. “Come on, you crabby old banda!” Bworo says. “We have work.” Yonas raises his head to the sky and emits a groan of extreme reticence, the guttural groan of the despairing slave in captivity. Habesha giggles and Bworo shakes his head. They are accustomed to the protests of their only…

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In November by Dermot O’Sullivan

  Eyes shut tight against the water; Andy MacAuliffe fumbled for the shower tap, found it, and twisted it shut. He opened his eyes and stood motionless as the water drained off his body in a shining tangle of shallow rivulets. When the din of tinkling had died down to a steady drip-drop-drip, he stepped out of the shower. He towelled himself dry and took a piss, savouring the long, satisfying gush and the frenetic bubbling as his jet…

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Ancient Words By Jane Bauling
Photo Credit: Mariloup

  “What is story?” the child asks. She is attempting to walk in the prints the man’s bare feet have left in the rough damp sand. His stride is long, so she must stretch her legs to match it. Occasionally, she will venture a jump from one indentation to the next. If she misjudges, the edges of the sunken foot-shape crumble over her small feet. She likes the sensation of the sand scouring her skin. Their way lies just…

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Crooked Seeds By Karen Jennings

  An Excerpt From a Novel-in-Progress She woke with the thirst already upon her, still in her clothes, cold from having slept on top of the covers. Two days, three, since she had last changed, the smell of her murky with sweat, fried food, cigarettes. Her underwear’s stink strong enough that it reached her even before moving to squat over an old plastic mixing bowl that lived beside the bed. She steadied her weight on the bedstead with one…

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