Acis and Galatea by Ryan Napier
‘When I was in grad school, I was ashamed of many things. For instance, I had never read the Odyssey. I should have: it was essential to the dissertation I was writing on Joyce.’
The Arrangement by Mike Fox
‘It was the sort of unguarded suggestion that quickly morphs into a contract. And the opt-out clause, if there is one, could involve lasting offence. And the warning signs are in the small print that you yourself should have written, but you didn’t.’
Ember by Erika Nichols-Frazer
‘A fire from the west meets a fire from the east—explodes. Up and down the coastline, everything burns.’
The Turtle on the Stairs by Cath Barton
‘I saw the turtle for the first time on the second night of our stay. It was nestled in a corner of the stairs. Soon will be the time. I come here to wait for it.’
The Last Firework by Philippa Holloway
‘Maria is ironing in the soft warmth of the apartment when the first car pulls up across town and shots are fired into the city crowds.’
Curse by Jess Moody
‘She was nearly caught out this month. His work, her work, housework: she’d lost track of the date.’
Checkmate by Jeanine Skowronski
‘We have to mark the person with our whole hand. Fingers, palm and thumb. No partials, no halves. No strokes, no smears.’
Readings by Jane Snyder
‘The first in line, two girls and a boy, were straight up pigs. The only good thing about holding their sticky palms was knowing they were going to get exactly what they deserved.’
A Good Job by Nicolas Townley
‘The familiar grey had returned to our city. The streets no longer gleamed bright and the colours appeared less vivid. Clouds had crept back.’
Free Lift Home by Andrew Maguire
‘On the evening of his fiftieth birthday, Martin Conlon stood at the exit of Belfast International Airport, digging though the pound coins in his wallet in search of the wedding ring he’d hidden amongst them.‘
Notes On Leaving and Arriving by Elodie Barnes
‘October woodsmoke hangs in the air. It’s fragile, misted with sunshine and sharp on her nose, clinging to the trees and chimney pots of the square. She sits on the wooden bench and breathes. Everything is familiar. Everything is the same. ‘
Utterly by Laura Yash
‘They still call me Mrs Jenkins, but Mr Jenkins and I no longer share a bed, or a roof, or anything like that. It’s just my married name was already on the sign, and it seemed like such a faff to take it down, and get a new one painted.’
Blurred Edges by Mike Fox
‘My first impression of the house I inherited was of a stolid, square building, uncompromisingly part of its surroundings and pretty much set in its ways.’
Identity by Josephine Galvin
‘The café we choose for our fortnightly meet ups is typical of the town we come from: shabby and change-resistant. Had it been located in an affluent area, some fancying-up could possibly have made it artisan. As it is, it remains authentic in an unstructured, haphazard way.’
The Officer's Wife by Lynda Cowles
‘My husband’s name is Alistair Trent. He’s not Scottish but his mother was. He is an officer in the Royal Navy and he likes to smoke a cigarette after every meal. So far, that is everything I know of him.’
Diminishing Returns by Mike Fox
‘It was in Joseph’s nature to perform random acts of kindness, so random that they rarely attracted payback, or even attention.‘