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there is no doubt, here it is, on the sign:                Prawn chowder   prawn                                    chowder   (words already unfamiliar but growing more distant as I say them in my head for a third time)   prawn ?           chowder ?   on reflection        cream of cauliflower doesn’t seem so bad which is why I’m ladling (eyebrows peaking, just a little, at how the soup matches the sides of the takeaway container) And now I’m paying                                                               tap your card darling and tapping (darling)          and     walking and my hand!, container too hot, palm softening, losing lines, switching hands (surprisingly pink!), round to the lifts, sound chiming, me picking up pace, just fast enough to make it, stepping in someone else asking                                                             what floor   One ‘One’? Christ, should’ve said ‘first’ rubbing my leg against the side   Intercom, now,                                                                      First Floor Out, doors wide, down into the corridor (averting my eyes, upwards, away from the red and orange concentric circles across the carpet), upper arm preparing to negotiate the swing doors, nudging myself and the soup carefully slowly slowly through   I must walk as if I am not checking whether the sofa and table are free, I have no purpose, nonchalantly wandering, with my soup that is not too hot and my spoon that is just in my hand for whenever I fancy using it, purely making a casual parade of the office, bearing to the left, towards the kitchen area where a certain sofa resides, not that I’m hoping to get that exact sofa and table I use most days, just after the fridge, hidden behind the coffee station, and which may or may not be occupied, no no, just walking, just scheming at how, if someone has their lunchbox firmly on the table, how I can walk (not dejected, not me!) as if I am only passing by, not turning around,   (approaching now, scanning for a foot sticking out, a coat draped on the side) I will keep walking, I decide, walking, and just go
Little Scratch

Prize Entry

April 2018

Rebecca Watson

This, titled ‘Mouth’ in my father’s fading hand, found by my sister on a half-concealed shelf in his house after he had died…:   The last time I posted a letter I came home unable to speak   The postbox looked as it had looked for the last decade, red, solid and satisfyingly leaden, as if indeed it were made of lead, like one of the soldiers in bright regimental uniform I inherited from my father, and liked secretly to lick, and used to dispose in elaborate battalions on the linoleum floor of my mother’s kitchen, a floor that, when I stretched myself out on my stomach in order to imagine the armies I’d arranged around me, resembled a desert battlefield, especially when I half closed my eyes and mimicked the sound of bombs falling, making soft crepitations with my lips, a battlefield even though the kitchen floor was flat and smelled of the dust ingrained in its surface, a surface that, up close, appeared to be slightly porous, faintly cratered, like the scars on my father’s cheeks, which I associated with his habit of smoking for some reason, a dust so embedded in its surface that it emitted an almost imperceptible atmosphere, distinct from the carpeted or upholstered parts of the house, which were also landscapes to me, an atmosphere more like that of the moon, which has a mist, I’d assumed, that tastes of fine grit, from the fragments of rock that lie scattered on it like bones and teeth, boulders like the round ends of ball-and-socket joints   The red postbox looked as it had done then ever since I’d first encountered it, solid and dependable and smiling, an old friend, a Chelsea pensioner marooned on the side of the road on a tentative trip to the shops, or so I thought when I shuffled round it from the side, momentarily catching my left slipper, I was wearing battered felt slippers, and scraping it with a soft, rasping sound I liked on a piece of paving that protruded slightly, as if a creature I didn’t know existed had cautiously lifted it, like

Prize Entry

April 2018

Mouth

Matthew Beaumont

Prize Entry

April 2018

This, titled ‘Mouth’ in my father’s fading hand, found by my sister on a half-concealed shelf in his house...

Fiction

March 2018

When We Were Nothing But Motion

Julie Reverb

Fiction

March 2018

Owen’s room was clean and his laugh genuine and he’d roll you a smoke. He was thirty-three, and had...

Fiction

Issue No. 21

Jonah

Johanna Hedva

Fiction

Issue No. 21

After The Eliza Battle, I went to Berlin to recuperate, to nurse my pride. I had been there many...

Fiction

February 2018

Tribute

Jennifer Atkins

Fiction

February 2018

Sometimes you think about Atlas and you cry. Poor thing. A lot of the time you can’t get over...

Fiction

January 2018

Flood

Seno Gumira Ajidarma

TR. Michael Bodden

Fiction

January 2018

Ten minutes before the floodwaters arrived, Pak Prawiro died. Who knows to where his soul sped off. Now only...

The Necessary Changes Have Been Made

Fiction

November 2017

Nafissa Thompson-Spires

Fiction

November 2017

Though he had theretofore resisted the diminutive form of his name, in his new office, Randolph felt, for the first time, like a Randy....

Fiction

October 2017

Cookouts

J.M. Holmes

Fiction

October 2017

My auntie Sammy had real red-velvet cake — not that she had the time to make it, bread-winning at...

fiction

August 2017

Lengths

Matthew Perkins

fiction

August 2017

1   I sat at the kitchen table while Valentine prepared cups of flowery, smoky loose leaf tea. Antoine...

Turksib

fiction

June 2017

Lutz Seiler

TR. Alexander Booth

fiction

June 2017

The jolts of the tracks were stronger now and came at irregular intervals. With my arms outstretched, I held myself up between the walls...