Ballad of the Digital Nomad (1st Place, Judges’ Pick)

By Kelli Johnson

This is a story—a beginning, middle, and end.

Girl pursues a simulacrum of fulfillment. She travels to Tangiers, Istanbul, Venice; meets boxers, developers, poets; counts lira, Starbuckses, ceiling fan revolutions; eats kebab, baklava, solitude. 

If she speaks three words to a roadside bookseller, she calls it a good day. And if she lies in bed forgetting to eat, it’s ‘self-care’.

She is a nomad; she is stuck. She cannot penetrate the adventure happening around her, only snaps photographs to remember the unmemorable. 

The beginning is the end, and she merely stews in the middle.

—XOXO Wish you were here!

The Final Act (2nd Place, Judges’ Pick)

By Jon Robins

Uncle Harry’s visits are always such fun. He looks at me with a comically raised eyebrow and says, ‘The Great Halzaro will amaze and astound.’

The deck is shuffled and I choose from the fan of cards. With fingers pressed to his temples he announces, ‘Nine of diamonds.’ I gasp when I check the card. The encore is always a coin hidden behind my ear. 

Now it’s our turn to visit him. In the hospital corridor the doctor places his hand on mum’s shoulder and says, ‘He’s gone.’ 

I tremble with excitement. He’s never made himself vanish before.

Just Ten More Credits

By L. L. Wright

Astra’s eyes sparkled in the diner’s fluorescents as she slurped her milkshake. The brand-new ring on her fourth finger—proof she'd never leave him—sparkled too, but nothing came close to those eyes.

Smiling, Fionn reached for his straw. 

The diner faded to a dark, empty apartment. 

“End of preview. Ten credits to continue.”

Hunger and cold gnawed at him, but neither compared to the emptiness in Fionn’s chest when he thought of her… Gone forever. Except in memories. 

“Payment accepted. Two credits remaining.” 

Sweet strawberry flooded his mouth as the simulation rebooted, and he lost himself in those eyes.

The Embrace

By Louie Corrina

I wrap a blanket around my waist. If I can squeeze it in tightly enough with my arm it will become his, leaden with sleep, securing me.

I press my back into stacked pillows, which dwarf my shoulders as his would dwarf mine. They are too cold. I urge my blood to warm them, to stoke the furnace that would be his body – so alive and so volatile. 

I drown myself in the sweet, intoxicatingly male scent of his shirt, my clenched fist wrinkling the fabric. A baby, clutching its mother’s finger. 

He is here, and he is gone.

Sign of the Times

By Felipe Orlans

“Illusions? Sure I have illusions. Chocolate Bitter, Lemon Drop Sour and Candyfloss Bubbles. Here's ‘Happy Endings;’ right popular, they are. Flying off the shelf, can’t barely keep up.”

“I’ll have an ‘All’s Well That Ends Well,’ please, and – oh! Is that a ‘Peace on Earth?’”

“Can’t sell you that, luv. Expired, hasn’t it? Here, have a ‘True Love’ instead. Best read the label, though: ‘Causes heartache.' That will be two shillings. You have a nice day now.”

“Weren’t you selling dreams before, Jack?”

“Ain’t no call for that, no more, Tom. Bloke has to shift with the times, innit?”

The Tea Party

By Robert Burns

The tea party was perfect. Tiny teacups set upon tiny saucers. Tiny cakes. Porcelain teapot upon a lace doily.

“More chamomile, Mr. Bear?” Sallie asked teddy—always her favorite—pouring pretend tea into his cup. “Mrs. Grey?” she politely offered the stuffed goose.

“Sallie? Time to go,” Mother called.

“Coming,” the little one said, watching the tea party dissolve as she stepped through the door, rejoining the bleak reality of the sharecropper’s shack.

Mother fixed her black veil. “Daddy’s waiting.”

Hand in hand, they stepped out into dusty sunlight. Sallie squinted over her shoulder and whispered goodbye to her childhood.

Siguanaba

By Maria Lorenzana

A moonless night filled with sorrow. Her hooves, like stilettos, click hard stone. Black curls hang loosely below her waist, gently swaying in the breeze, hiding an equine face in shadow.

An avenging specter formed by violence endured long ago, she waits, at the crossroads feared by all men. She waits for those with a cheating heart. She waits, and each night they come stumbling, drink on their breath, another’s scent on their skin, lies on their lips. She entices them with white, satin sheathed curves, only revealing her true self in their lustful abandon. Their last whisper, her name.

Seascape at Port-en-Bessin, Normandy

By Scott Fisher

“It’s just dots,” Elena said, her nose almost touching the canvas. “How does it work?”

“George Seurat was a magician.” I said from the far side of the gallery. “His paintbrush was his wand.”

Elena, seven years old and sharper than Man Ray’s chess set, ran around the room viewing the painting from different angles and distances until she came and stood next to me.

“Do you see it now?” I asked. 

From this distance, thousands of tiny paint strokes combined to create a beautiful, sweeping seascape.

“It’s not just dots!” Elena gasped as she saw the artist’s illusion. 

Magic’s Other Dimension

By Paul Lewthwaite

A scrap of paper materialises beside the unconscious patient. He’s a stage magician. Delusional.

A single line of handwriting. You don’t exist. I’m dreaming. 

The penmanship matches the patient’s own. Doctors crowd round, all talking at once. Sleight of hand? But how?

The lights go out. When the emergency generators kick in, the man has vanished.

There is uproar. The bed sheets, neatly pressed, smell fresh. His crumpled form has left no indentation. Medical records are missing. 

A publicity stunt? An elaborate illusion? 

Some shout and swear, others hug, eyes shut tight. 

All wonder if they too are but dreams.

Vanity of Vanities

By Amanda M Grant

He was a cruise-ship magician before he joined the clergy.

The jobs were similar - lots of theatre with a sense of mystery. He played the part well. Female parishioners swooned at his performances and the offering plate steadily grew under his watchful eye.

Jealous husbands resented his charisma, slim waist and grizzled hair. They mumbled through his sermons, complained about his hymn choices.

Until he left them unexpectedly, taking with him two silver candlesticks and the contents of the Church Bell Fund. They expunged him from all their records, as if he had vanished into thin air.

Gaudo the Great

By Louise Walton

Martina's tassels shiver as she slides beside, under, around; never fully in the spotlight, hips coaxing mesmerised eyes away from Gaudo's fingers preparing the next trick.

Ta-da! Beaming teeth and rabbits gleam white as Gaudo flourishes the hat. The crowd cheers his deft hands.

Those same hands that crush and wallop, the bruises covered by Martina's leotard that glitters like Gaudo's eyes in their caravan. He says he cares, but ‘cares’ hides inside the word ‘scares’. He loves tricks.

So does Martina. Her stage-smile dazzles; the greatest illusion of them all.

She wonders if anyone will notice when she disappears.

The Fence

By Deborah Thompson

The forearm lay on the table, every detail clear to Tilly – the clawed hand, the corded veins, the horrible mess of bone and blood.

“Do you like it, dear? said Mrs Wentworh, little glasses flashing. “Mr Wentworth never lifted a finger anyway. He wouldn’t build that fence to keep your cat out.” 

She smiled sweetly.

“It’s a cake, silly!” said her mother, after Tilly had rushed home. “She’s famous for them.”

Tilly thought back to the red splashes on Mrs Wentworth’s frilly blouse. When exactly had she last seen Mr Wentworth?

“Mum” she said. We’ve got to build a fence.”

Seeing Is Believing

By James Hancock

“Ears point to prickles, and a long stretched mouth biting with teeth like a hundred jagged pine trees. Pretty scary, right?”

“Yeah, but mine’s worse. The witch leans back on her broomstick, laughing, and has monstrous talon fingers trying to grab…”

“Oh no! That’s freaking me out. And there’s a huge skull behind her too. Massive eyes, with pin dots in the middle.”

“Yes! Staring straight at us. Spooky, but not like the werewolf. That’s moving. Reaching out and eating your witch whole.”

“That is sick! What about you, Carl? What can you see?”

“Sorry guys. I just see clouds.”

Lucky Girl

By Erica Ward

Mood lighting bathes the gin bottles in an innocent cerise glow. 

“Toby’s looking gorgeous as always!” Anna looks me up and down. “And he likes you without make-up—you’re lucky! The more slap the better for Ray!” 

Her laughter echoes like gunfire.

Back home, Toby hangs his coat wordlessly. Four doors down, Anna’s kicking off her shoes; Ray’s brewing tea. 

 “At the bar—what was so hilarious?” Toby’s voice is clipped. “And this?” He drags his thumb across my mouth, acquiring a pale pink smudge.

“Lip balm; I didn’t know it was tinted!”

Toby smirks joylessly, pours himself a gin.

Somewhere South of Swanley

By Ed McConnell

Rattling like nails in a jar the train judders out of London at 3.32pm on a January Monday.
Grubby green embankments and graffitied concrete shoot past. Now fields with great puddles lingering large as lakes.

The sky’s too blue through the carriage window tint. The colour doesn’t belong to what’s below.

The train accelerates and the sun’s last rays bounce through a copse, its stripped black trunks like cage bars. And now I see it. Alone in a wood somewhere south of Swanley. Toy-size from this distance. Fleetingly but undoubtedly. A zebra.

Influencer

By Rosemary Lux

I love this juice. 

Maya looked at her screen. Simple, but said what she was paid to say. Now for an image. She scrolled, selected, then edited hard; slimming and trimming, enhancing, smoothing, finally swapping the cocktail for green juice. Perfect. Post.

***

I love this juice. 

Zoe gazed at her screen, longing to look like her idol; Maya was gorgeous. She pinched skin on her belly, imagining rolls of fat where there were none. Must try harder, eat less, drink green juice, exercise.

***

Ping. Ping. Maya watched the likes rising, forking lasagne and chips into her mouth. Yum. 

The judges chose ‘Ballad of the Digital Nomad’ as their favourite. Congratulations, Kelli Johnson!

The judges chose ‘The Final Act’ as the runner up. Congratulations, Jon Robins!

The Members-Only Group chose ‘Sign of the Times’ and ‘Influencer’ as their favourites. Congratulations, Felipe Orlans and Rosemary Lux!