epilogue – Issue One

Emily folded the poem neatly
and returned it to its home.
She pushed the twenty-fifth drawer
back into the body of The Cabinet.
There were thousands more pieces to be discovered
but she could hear her brother call her
from the beach.
She breathed in this wondrous find,
this curious silent friend,
and ran out from the cave.
Emily would return in the morning
to read some more,
perhaps she would bring her brother with her.
But as her feet made their tracks
in the soft sand of Castle Beach,
The Cabinet Of Heed was already teleporting



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Image: Sanwal Deen

The Magic Robot – Lorraine Carey

He was the best ever Christmas gift,
slid in and under the wiry tree
whose needles fell like starched thread.
Baubles bobbed on branches, the softest
oyster pink and baby blue. Bottle green
and ketchup red, though sparsely hung
they did their best.

He was rigid, a matte emerald
with a sliver of silver
coiled at the tip, his feet encased
in a hub. I lifted him out in awe.
Questions in coloured orbs
made a perfect circle
a surround for a scooped out hollow.

On the other side a little mirrored pond
for Magic Robot to stand. I placed him
at his station, with his outstretched hand
and put him to work, on his little
mirror, all Christmas without a break
until he protested and disappeared,
among all the debris of our childhood.


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Bio: Lorraine Carey is an Irish poet and artist from Donegal, now living in Kerry. Her poems have featured in the following ; Ariel Chart, The Blue Nib, Atrium, The Honest Ulsterman, Vine Leaves, The Galway Review, Quail Bell, Proletarian, Olentangy Review, A New Ulster, Stanzas, ROPES, North West Words, Picaroon and Sixteen and is forthcoming in Laldy, Launchpad and The Runt Zine. Her artwork has featured in Three Drops From A Cauldron, Dodging the Rain and Riggwelter Press. Lorraine’s debut collection – From Doll House Windows, is published by Revival Press.



The Mother Of All Universes – Gordon Pinckheard

A long time ago, in the multiverse far far away, a Junior Intelligent Designer created a universe. The Mentor wasn’t pleased; there is a career path to be followed, and creating universes is a long way from the simple creation of moons. He knew the Boss wasn’t going to be happy either.

It wasn’t in dispute that Junior knew her moons, but she had gone too far. Universes can be created easily – that’s why there are so many in the multiverse – but getting all the pieces to work together successfully is tricky. Junior had assembled some ideas into a draft architecture and then, without telling her Mentor, had executed the build. The Big Bang was the first he knew of her universe’s birth.

There was no going back. Once the build had been started, it had to be made to work. After the Big Bang, the moons, planets, and stars were taking shape. Junior did know her moons. But the galaxies were a problem. They weren’t orbiting evenly. The Mentor added dark matter. He knew it was a kludge.

And then Junior insisted her universe was to expand forever, speeding up. If this one didn’t, she threatened to build another. Reluctantly the Mentor added dark energy. He checked his figures; 4.9% ordinary matter, 26.8% dark matter and 68.3% dark energy. He’d had to do some serious fixing! This mustn’t happen again; who would expect a builder of moons to birth a universe?

Junior studied her newborn universe. “Let there be light,” she instructed.

The Mentor sought an explanation. “Light?” he asked nervously.

“It’s so you can see,” explained Junior. “It’s an electromagnetic wave, and it behaves like both a particle and a wave at the same time. It always goes at the same relative speed, even if you’re moving. Nothing goes faster than light. Super cool.”

The Mentor’s curiosity got the better of him. “How can it go at the same relative speed all the time?” he asked.

“Time changes,” she answered.

He blanched. How had it come to this? What did Junior think she was doing? This universe was a nightmare! Who would ever understand it?

“Oh, and light is bent by gravity,” she added proudly. “Well – strictly – gravity distorts space-time, and light is travelling along a geodesic.”

There were tears in the Mentor’s eyes. “How are we going to explain this to the Boss?” he asked. “How did you come up with these ideas?”

“Well, I had so many and I had to choose just a few. I rolled dice,” she replied.

“We can’t tell him that,” exclaimed the Mentor, starting to panic.

“Okay,” said Junior. “Tell him I work in mysterious ways.”


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Bio: Having spent his working life writing computer programs and technical documents, Gordon has settled into retirement in Kerry, Ireland, writing short fiction pieces to entertain himself and – hopefully – others.




Image: Trandoshan

The Swimmers – Rebecca Williams

The girl steps into the water, careful precise movements until the waves lick at her hipbones. With a deft motion of her arms, she dives in. She has an neat overarm crawl, propelling herself toward the fiery line of the horizon.

The beach she leaves behind is clotted with people. They gossip and chat, eat ice lollies, apply sun cream, flick sand, build sandcastles, bicker and laugh and fight and play; they pay her no attention.

When she is a mile or so out, another two girls get into the water; they have the same efficient way of swimming, the water falls cleanly away from their bodies like hot knives through butter. Metre by metre, inch by inch, the new swimmers narrow the gap of gunmetal grey between them.

Like the shadow of a cloud passing over fields, the people on the beach fall silent. As they watch, the swimmers eat up the final shreds of ocean and come upon the girl in the blink of an eye. They push down on her, holding her in an unloving embrace.

They dip and bob, slip sliding under the water. The girl thrashes her legs but the fathoms below her give her no purchase and she loses precious sips of oxygen. There are three sleek blonde heads visible, but the swimmers are inorexable in their end goal and now just two heads bob up and down on the waves.

Briefly there are three again. Then two – the stillness stretches, folds in on itself with the weight of the watching gaze, but only still two remain. On the shore, the watchers take a sledgehammer to the silence as the sound of hundreds of voices cheer in victory.


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Bio: Rebecca Williams has always wanted to be a writer. She completed the first draft of her novel – about bored housewives on a vigilante crime spree – in August 2017. She is killing time before second draft edits by dabbling in flash and shorter fiction. You can find her on Twitter @stupidgirl45




Image: Li Yang

Tom’s Bottom Drawer – J.Y. Saville

Tom’s house was full of drawers. He had the usual kind for keeping woollen socks, pieces of string and worn forks, but as the belongings strewn on chair-backs and table-tops might suggest, they were often overlooked. Tom’s life was dominated by the other drawers, the ones he had designed himself. The ones he didn’t have a licence for.

Tom had been sitting in silence for some time when a scratching noise caught his wandering attention, and since the drawers were motionless he looked at the window. A trailing branch waved in the breeze but not close enough to have skittered against the glass. Uncomfortable from sitting for so long in a state of nervous anticipation, Tom got up and looked out. A girl he didn’t recognise was striding across his garden with a spring in her step, and her hands in her cardigan pockets.

“Hey!” Tom called, but the window had only opened a crack because of the vine growing across it, and the girl didn’t look round. “Bugger,” he muttered, not having spoken to anyone all week. He knew there were more important matters in hand though, and he sat back down by his stack of paper to wait for a story to appear.

Tom had a creative streak. No harm in that, but Tom had let it go too far. Not content with embellishing legends or creating new ones from recent events, he wanted to make up stories of his own. There’s a word for that, his Nan had said. Do you want everyone to know you as a liar? He’d tried to explain, but the distinction between telling an untruth for entertainment and telling one to get yourself out of trouble had proved too subtle for her. Now he was weeks away from the golden age of twenty-seven, and not only not engaged but with no apparent interest in it.

Tom knew marriage didn’t have to involve love, though that made for a romantic tale to pass down the generations. Marriage was all about planning. Most people in the valley were engaged by twenty-six, so that when they came of age they knew – even if the wedding didn’t happen immediately – what life had in store for them. Tom’s plans didn’t involve his neighbours, the valley, or fitting in. Besides, it was hard to come to an understanding of that nature with anyone when you couldn’t let them linger in your house in case they started asking questions.

The fermenting-drawer rumbled. Plates rattled on the dresser above and Tom fingered his collar, watching for movement. Shuddering on warped runners the drawer inched out until Tom could see the closely-written sheets within. They taunted him with their proximity but he knew it didn’t do to be too hasty; three fingers ached with the memory of being broken last Spring. He held his breath till he could hold it no more, then leaned forward and grabbed his story before the drawer slammed shut and a serving platter pitched off the upper rack to shatter on the flags.

He skim-read the opening paragraph, then read it again more carefully. This time the words had melted and merged to form something better than he’d started out with. No redundant nonsense, no extraneous words scattered through otherwise acceptable sentences. This time the drawer had done its job and – His smile faded, his gaze froze on the last line: And they all lived happily ever after, except the guy I forgot to mention earlier who the story really should have been about, well he drowned in his own existential angst because his aunt was really his mother posing as his landlady while his girlfriend who was really his cousin …

The trouble was, Tom had no-one to turn to for help. There was a reason why the drawer-systems cost so much – actually there were two reasons, and one of them was that they were tricksy bits of kit. The other was that it didn’t do for literature to fall into the hands of people like Tom. He’d once heard it said that there were two types of stories: literature, for the well-to-do, and yarns for the simple folk. Both kept to the familiar, the old stories or something the audience knew the bones of; the difference was in the telling. Drawer-systems were sophisticated devices for the well-heeled, the licence alone cost more than Tom could hope to make in a lifetime. If he stayed in the valley, that was. In the meantime, his hopes for getting out were pinned on the original story he’d been writing, tucking away the precious finished sheets in his bottom drawer as assiduously as any betrothee ever stashed their household linen.

In theory, it was possible to harness and tune the airborne flotsam using natural materials, and concentrate them in enclosed spaces to affect the tales. Boxes would work, but drawers were more convenient and took up less space, if they were built right. So, a lover’s laugh drifting in on a summer breeze, the sigh of a neglected mother mingling with the frosty morning air, the warmth of Spring sunshine, could all be woven into the bones of the story to add seasoning. The yarn-spinners of the valley used the crude spindles of their forefathers, gathering threads of memory and song, and creating something fine but short-lived, passed around by voice or occasionally as dog-eared pamphlets.

A knock at the door startled Tom and he realised he was still standing with the useless paper limp in his hands. He stuffed it under a hat on a chair and went to the door.

“Hello,” was all he could think of, faced with the smile of the girl he’d seen earlier. She was quite pretty, close up, and she had an ink stain on her left hand. Without quite meaning to, Tom stepped back to let her in. The strong reach of her mind made Tom’s neck prickle.

“You should sweep that up, you’ll hurt yourself,” she said, and when she looked into Tom’s eyes he knew that in one glance at his haphazard furniture and the shards of a broken plate, she’d penetrated his secret.

He felt his face warming and started to stammer out some justification for his tinkering with advanced literary devices, but stopped himself. She could be from the government.

“Who are you?” he asked. His Nan would not have approved of such rudeness.

Tom’s visitor smiled again. “A new neighbour,” she said. “Come a-calling, with fetch-up gifts.” She held out a fine spindle: “They told me you’re a yarn-spinner.”

Tom reached out, but she snatched it back and secreted it in a pocket.

“I was told wrong though,” she said. “No yarn-spinner here. Can’t see no equipment.”

She grinned and Tom’s eyes darted round the room; he thought his old spindle might be beneath his bed.

“Did you make that spindle?” he asked.

She swept a pile of clothes and papers off a chair and sat down.

“That’s what I do, make stuff.”


Tom was actually whistling as he strode back up the lane from the post office. Mirie, for that was the girl’s name, was twenty-six, unbetrothed, and a machine-witch. She’d seemed to skirt every side of the how and why she’d ended up in the valley with no relatives, but Tom couldn’t deny she was good at her calling. She proved quite knowledgeable about the inner workings of drawer-systems. The optimum temperature for setting-drawers, where the ink stabilised in its new configuration. The proper dimensions for the inner partition of the fermenting-drawer, to allow just the right amount of word-shuffle. The summoning charms for airborne matter, to filter out the sentimental or macabre as required. She’d been a bit cagey about where she picked all that up, as well.

Still, Mirie had set Tom on the right path and he’d ordered new ink from the city, with a slower coagulation rate to improve his chances of hitting on the right combination before the letters became sluggish and had to be re-cast. With this new ink, and some modifications to his drawer-stack, Tom could be on his way out of the valley in next to no time. He would revolutionise the world of literature, proving it could be done by a country boy with no connections. Of course, he’d probably have to claim it could be done without a drawer-system too, at least until he was absolutely sure about retrospective application of laws.

He stopped suddenly on the path to his front door and the last of his tune died away as a soft puff of breath. His door was open a crack and he could hear clattering. Now he looked, he could see windows open, vines and climbers shoved roughly back from the frames. He advanced slowly, breathing soft and shallow so he could listen. A familiar hum came to him over the shush of a broom on flags.

“Nan?” He pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold.

“You weren’t brought up to live in a state like this.”

“Nice to see you too.”

“It’s a good job I came when I did,” his Nan continued. “I -”

“My drawers,” Tom blurted, launching himself into the room to lean over the large table. “Tell me you haven’t touched the drawers.”

“Well of course I touched the drawers.” Tom’s Nan looked at him as though she hoped there’d been some mistake of parentage. “Didn’t look like you’d touched them in a long time, and that’s the trouble. If you’d -”

“What did you do with the bottom drawer?”

Her nostrils flared but Tom ignored the warning signs and asked her again: “Where’s the stuff from the bottom drawer?”

“All those sheets of paper?” she asked, and Tom nodded eagerly. “I read a bit to see if they were important.”

“And?” Tom was bouncing on the balls of his feet, willing her to say she’d put them elsewhere for safekeeping.

“They were like no tales I’ve ever heard,” she said, stoking Tom’s ego even in his moment of fear. “So I shredded them for mulch.”

“You did what?” Tom might have taken a glimmer of satisfaction from the way his Nan flinched if he hadn’t have been watching his future recede into a hazy distance.

“Load of rubbish,” she insisted, though not as confidently as before. “I had to shift them so you could use your bottom drawer the way a twenty-six-year-old should: for your wedding gatherings.”

“What wedding gatherings?”

“Exactly.” Tom’s Nan rallied, on surer ground. “And if we ever want you to have any, we need to get you sorted out.”

Tom sighed. With Mirie’s assistance and a re-tuned system, he might make faster progress this time, but the thought of starting again from scratch made him feel sick and like he wanted to cry. Now that his Nan had started, he wouldn’t have a moment’s peace until the betrothal punchbowl had been drained and the bunting hung from his roof.

“You never take an interest in anyone,” she was saying, scooping socks from a shelf with one hand and brandishing a duster with the other. “I hear there’s a girl about your age new-arrived. No family, but then you can’t tell till you’ve taken tea with a person.”

“I have done,” said Tom, his mouth twitching with the birth of a smile that would broaden over the next few moments until it exploded as a laugh.

“Have done what?”

“Taken tea with the new girl. Mirie. She’s …”

He couldn’t think of anything that approximated the truth and would also meet with his Nan’s approval, but she misread his features in a useful way and smiled.

“I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” she said, indicating to Tom that she’d thought the exact opposite, but he didn’t care. He could see the glimmerings of a future again.


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Bio: J.Y. Saville has had work published by Visual Verse, The Fiction Pool and The RS 500.




Image: Michał Grosicki

Dragonfly, hovering – Eilise Norris

You fly low to the river.
I see you, wanting to go further, the water like loose sugar.

I know the frisson in your wings, the way the water makes you think.

Your body ignites;
my hand unexpectedly close to ruin, fewer hairs
on the tops of my fingers.
The breeze bites down on
necks of the reeds thrown back.
— just as quickly dissolves.

Her shirt pouted,
shifting to redress some balance, when she said
she felt uncomfortable. So much static
in the hand rail, as though we were already touching.
She tried to steer my eyes aground.
Her nails jewelled, like you.
Beautiful Demoiselle, Common Blue Damsel.

Only a thumbprint on the air
before she flickered,
her friend cutting in.


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Bio: Eilise Norris currently writes short stories, flash fiction and poetry alongside working full-time in academic publishing. She has recently contributed flash fiction to EllipsisZine and BlinkInk. This is her first published poem. Twitter: @eilisecnorris




Image: Stux

The Sitter – Monica Dickson

You’d think I’d get used to it but you don’t, not really. Every time is like the first time, ‘cause it usually is for them. A revolving door of students mainly, A-level sometimes, Foundation and First Years more often. I’ve learnt to switch off from the giggling and the pointing. I’d probably have done the same at their age.

One student keeps coming back though. I shouldn’t have even thought about it. He’s just a boy really, all Sta Prest trousers and those funny wee jumpers that my Da used to wear back in Waterford, patterned greys and greens with a rolling V of knitted fabric at the front. He’s like an 18 year old Val Doonican, which is probably not the look he was after, given that he’s never heard of him. He keeps his tie on too, which makes him stand out even more amongst the stained baggy shirts and ripped dungarees. He has the pale skin and hungry cheekbones of the tortured artist down, though. He’s not even that good at painting; he tried to explain to me, after that first time, what he liked about art but his vague murmurings felt watered down, borrowed. He’s committed to the parody at least, faithful to the construct. I never look at him directly as he glances from canvas to me, my body, but when he is there I am hyper aware of every crease, shake, twitch. My stomach rumbles loudly and I hope that they will think it’s someone else. I listen to the traffic outside and sometimes a little sound will sneak from my closed lips, a quick, short hum of a note or a whimper, a ‘huh’ that has to make its way outside of me, I can’t stop it. It’s awkwardness, or fear, I suppose. I can see his smirk, or rather I’m aware of his general look of being really pleased with himself, as though he’s the one with the audience. It’s the sort of self consciousness I can remember at that age but with him it comes from vanity rather than insecurity.

Most people prefer to pretend I am simply an object, another screen or an easel that appears and then removes itself from the room, silent and unobtrusive. I try not to break the fourth wall – it goes back to my training, I suppose, and technically I am still an actor. So his tap on my shoulder, albeit now covered in a terry towelling dressing gown, felt intimate and rushed. I was flustered and a little bit off with him but he didn’t seem to notice and he thanked me for sitting and then paused and said I had great… poise. It was clear that he meant something else, though I’m still not sure what – an innuendo that he didn’t quite have the right words for. That said it all about him really, a triumph of confidence over aptitude – his raw cheek was his talent. That and he smelled really, really good; cheap aftershave always sends me off kilter. I agreed to a coffee which turned into a long stroll around Camden and another undressing back at my flat just off the Lock. All my authority and self control and poise evaporated with every stumble, every angular clash and arrhythmic shove on my unmade bed.

Today he practices his strokes with particular flamboyance. He jabs deliberately at the palette, then the canvas with such violence that it wobbles slightly. I wonder if he’s trying to make me laugh but still I don’t look. Instead I amuse myself with thoughts of him standing there in a beret and smock, an oversized Salvador Dali moustache trailing from his face. No underwear, if I really want to enjoy myself. It distracts me from the sharpness of his jaw, the future he has over me, to mock him like this. I’d never tease him to his lovely face of course. I feel a sort of fatherly kindness towards him, though I am not quite old enough to be his father. Uncle, maybe. He’ll tire of me soon enough.
Until then, I kid myself that I am a guardian angel in a Renaissance painting. I could break his heart as he pores over my loosening flesh, as he paints over the telltale criss-cross of my forehead, as he smoothes away the darkening skin on my leathery knees.


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Bio: Monica Dickson is a writer of short fiction. Other examples of her work can be found in the current issue of Salomé (#3) and the forthcoming issue of Firewords (#9). You can follow her on Twitter @Mon_Dickson




Image: Jessica Ruscello

Mobius Strip – Breslin White

That match in your hand
look again
without prejudice:
it’s a bird,
and it’s looking sidewise at you.
Tweet tweet.
How noise if not a bird?
It wants to light up your world for you
and stroke its wings with its beak
and sing a song.
I always was a bird lover.
Can’t you be one too?


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Bio: Breslin White is a poet with Irish and Japanese family. He has submitted to Nashville Review, Cardinal Sins, concis, and more, and waiting to hear back. He has published a book of flower poetry called Lily Thrust.




Image: Robert C

The Village in the Shadow of K’prut – Steve Campbell

“K’prut was born of the land an’, gatherin’ all rock an’ soil, she rose up high, burstin’ up from beneath an’ shapin’ all that surroundin’. With one finger sweep she forgin’ a ridge, a slice from her crown to the valley so low, that she fills with flowing water she scoopin’ from clouds. The sweet, sweet water that bloats up our bellies. But K’prut not done. She takes her hands, two great stone ‘uns, an’ she drags ‘em through the land to make all them fields an’ meadows. And delicate like, she moulds trees an’ shoves them in row, after row, after row, after row. Still she rises up, bigger an’ taller an’ wider than all, crowned in the cold white.

“For our glowin’ she takes one eye an’ holds it high to feed the land with bright an’ hot. She plucks another ‘un an’ drains out all the burnin’, leavin’ the eye pale for when darkness creeps an’ sneaks in.

“All surroundin’ K’prut is lush. It grow taller an’ fat an’ bright with all them ages gone an’ soon tiny creatures come to eat all the rich an’ sweet. They attract screechers an’ swingers, an’ them attractin’ hounds, last came the son. He a man brave an’ strong with all the smarts. His fire an’ chippin’ an’ buildin’ in that valley soon bring others an’ they all chop an’ dig an’ begin ages of shapin’ an’ livin’.

“K’prut was happy an’ stood up tall an’ wide over village, majestic like. An’ all man look up at K’prut with awe an’ thankin’.

“It wondrous for many ages. The village spread an’ the sweet lush grow but man stopped thankin’. They think village come from their own work an’ shapin’. This boil up K’prut proper like. She roar an’ bellow an’ clash her stone grinders together an’, pullin’ wide her mouth, she spew a fire red flow so mighty that it sunk an’ black all trees an’ screechers an’ swingers. The soil shake an’ the sweet water bubble an’ when K’prut’s boil up had done, the village was swallowed an’ most man been ate up. Only a few lonesome missed that fire red flow.”

Jobe listenin’ with no speakin’ as Chief re-tell that shapin’ tale. Occasional Jobe eyed the cave wall where elders, with digits dipped in bright, had long since smearin’ visions of all those happenins. Followin’ Jobe’s seein’ Chief an’ spin to poke the smears, “Yes. K’prut she proper show what no thankin’ does!”

When Chief stares, Jobe sees K’prut’s rage down deep in Chief’s eyes an’ he start feelin’ it in his own middle an’ all, in his beatin’. Jobe listenin’ to this tale hundreds over ages, but this re-tellin’ was a proper symbolic. It readyin’ Jobe for X’em.

“K’prut speak through me, she come in visions clear an’ bright, and I hear ‘an all. She whispers low an’ deep an’ tells of X’em. She say young ‘uns who ready to bloom must show smarts an’ strength an’ worth. Them go live without shadow an’ when returnin’, them men. Men who worthy of livin’ in village. X’em is village way of showin’ K’prut proper thanks.”


In the first bright eyes of X’em, Jobe stay in trees that surroundin’ the village too scared of unknowin’ to go on. Soon scavengin’ grow slim so, with only a sharp at his side, Jobe follow the windin’ and turnin’ water, just like he done all them times huntin’ an’ scavengin’ with Father. It flow to nothin’ after many eyes but Jobe push on, choppin’ the lush an’ makin’ his own track.

Many times Jobe thinkin’ to spin an’ return to village with crown low in shame but he keep on track, even when pale eye come an’ he limbo with belly grumblin’ an’ sob-sobbin’ eyes flowin’.

Many times Jobe askin’ K’prut for guide but waitin’ many bright eyes she not speak. Knowin’ he on his lonesome, too far from village, Jobe takes up his sharp in rage…

Since beginnin’ X’em, hounds been creepin’ an’ waitin’ to drag Jobe into dark when he weakin’ an’ limp. Them hounds long gone now. Full of boil an’ rage Jobe sneakin’ proper quiet an’ sticks one an’ guts it. Them others soon get smarts and spin. That pale eye Jobe’s belly bloat up proper like with roast hound an’ limbo was best since beginnin’ X’em. In wakin’ Jobe thinkin’ less about village an’ K’prut an’ X’em an’ returnin’.

After many bright an’ pale eyes, Jobe break free of them trees an’ face wide flow that runnin’ fast an’ true an’ deep. All around Jobe the bright is brighter an’ the breathin’ is sweeter than he knowin’. The other flow edge is lush an’ green but not like Jobe eyed before.

Sparkin’ fire for waitin’ an’ thinkin’ about the crossin’ Jobe listenin’ a tappin’ come from the flow. Movin’ close he eyes a fallen branch that ratt-a-tattin’ on a rock an’, strainin’ an’ stretchin’, he drags wood to edge. After delicate snippin’ an’ chippin’ he soon have a staff which stand as tall as self.

The flow was deep an’ fast an’ it make to sweep Jobe away but the passion an’ willin’ inside him too bold. The staff hold true an’ all, and soon, gaspin’ an’ splutterin’, Jobe make it to flow edge.

Waitin’ for breath and devourin’ the last of roast hound Jobe eyes the crown of K’prut one last time. Then he take up his sharp an’ staff an’ spinnin’ his back to Her before pushin’ on through the lush green to seek out the unknowin’.


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Bio: Established in 1973, Steve Campbell is a taller, designer, writer. You can find his words in places such as: Sick Lit Magazine, Ad Hoc Fiction, Twisted Sister Lit Mag, Occulum and on his website standondog.com. He somehow finds time to manage EllipsisZine.com. Follow him on twitter here: @standondog.




Image: Mandy Beerley

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