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The Linen Man Suite by Lorie Broumand

The Sale

 

The linen man was having a sale. The townspeople got up early to buy linens.

The linen man had boasted of his sale for seven years, and the townspeople were driven by a rabid impatience. They’d pressured him to hold it now, and then now, and so on.

On the day of the sale, the town was caught up in a colossal heat. It was uncommon, so early in the summer, and the townspeople swung their limbs in wretchedness. Henny and Ida claimed the temperature had increased daily as the sale neared.

Others noticed this, too; worse, the air took on a density that smelled of flowers. It was clear from the smell these flowers had flourished in the heat, grown large in it, and died. The townspeople chose not to say anything, as it was unpleasant in a variety of ways. They held handkerchiefs over their faces as they walked to the linen sale.

The sun hadn’t come up yet, and all but one of the streetlights along the linen man’s street had gone out. It was too hot to fix them, so no one had, and the solitary light turned the air an uncomfortable green.

“There’s something linen-like about that shade of green,” said Mrs. R.

“It’s not the shade of green you’re noticing, it’s that machine sound,” said Mr. L.

“It’s the smell,” said Ms. X, “which is clearly linen in nature.”

Mr. L and Ms. X were notoriously confident about the superiority of their perceptions.

Townspeople streamed into the linen man’s street. The machine sound was very loud there, and a large object shook under a piece of plastic.

Near the object was a crate of cubes.

The townspeople needed dishcloths, bedclothes, curtains, and shirts. But they saw none of this—merely the cubes, and the density in the air.

Mrs. R drew a line through the air, an involuntary motion.

“Linen sale,” called the linen man. He ushered the townspeople with his hands.

 

 

Continue reading “The Linen Man Suite by Lorie Broumand”

The Boyfriend Pinch by Christopher John Eggett

It was a surprise to see the danger red, tango orange, white mottle. All the other shellfish she had seen that day in the rock pools had been dark browns, some black elegant creatures. This was a lobster that looked like it was half-cooked, but alive and well, a naturally appealing dinner invitation.

She felt like a child squatting down next to the rock pool. How had he got washed up here, so beautiful against the wrinkled rocks and sighing sand. The day, sunny but with a wind that ran through her ankles and up her skirt occasionally, should have been about observing. She thought she would spend some time looking at the rock pools, looking at the creatures in them, grey and black and brown—crabs moving amongst the husks and wrappers of their dead comrades. Never take a step back, pick up claw from a fallen brother.

She was going to be detached today, she’d promised. She wasn’t going to get involved with anything, she said the creative writing course was helping, but there needed to be more material, more distraction. She’d been told by the tutor that she was a natural journalist, scornfully. Always ready to get involved and meddle in someone else’s story, rather than secretly skimming off the best bits from a distance.

So she would observe today. It was a bit like when she had been dumped by her boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. The idea was to stay single for a while, to observe the others doing the dance and check she knew the steps.

But here, with this orange lobster in the black bowl of a Welsh rock pool, she decided to engage with it. She started by giving it a nudge with a stick to see how active it was. It was beautiful, so could be dead. It moved and whirled around to look at her, pointedly. She was surprised, and didn’t expect it to be so forward, it was a rare thing and therefore should be shy in her world. Continue reading “The Boyfriend Pinch by Christopher John Eggett”

genesis by Clark Chatlain

out of the gray afternoon it might begin—the creation of the world. in the sound of a snow shovel scraping on ice and in the slush that remains a kind of ex nihilo is generated. from nothing. certainly from nothing. in the birthing of worlds there are no principles only the appearance of that which did not exist before and that now is. that now irrefutably is. where once the cosmos was simply gray expanse and the waters then below, or even the gathering of all things in one small, great magnitude, there is now the gray afternoon. no diving for worlds in the great sea. no trickster. nothing. a flock of dying geese crosses the new sky in a v that tapers to oblivion. a dog howls to no answer in the distance. his leg is broken and he is looking for a culvert to hide in. surely, they have come. in this world the names are stripped one by one and a first and last lonesome forked creature with twelve fingers and no face ticks off the forgotten. ah, yes. this swirling mass of creation, this pool of dim color that rises in the deep of the gray and seems to nod to the cracked moon above—this is genesis. the names fall off each and each wanders to their glory in a desert of rock and gray sun. a world. a new world.

 

Continue reading “genesis by Clark Chatlain”

Two Pieces by Erin Calabria

Ten Sentences

 

I. Rowing

I am setting out on this water not to drift but to row, since this not loving you has drawn from me almost as much as loving you once did, and nothing is as full as a boat by itself in a sea that does not end.

 

II. Barn Ruin

We found it at the edge of the woods that August you wouldn’t touch me, just a skeleton of walls and poison ivy climbing all the way to the caved-in roof, triple leaves bigger than hands and glossed to the point of dripping, and it was almost pretty, all those edges hooked against each other, baring back a tessellated light, just as long as we didn’t come close.

 

III. Tide

I was not afraid you would hurt me, but that you never would, that you would never even peer between these ribs I’ve hinged apart for you, until the wind will do to me what it does to all soft creatures left behind by the tide, and the only sound my throat can make will be the sound of robin nests unraveled in a storm.

Continue reading “Two Pieces by Erin Calabria”

Jack by Gene Farmer

It was for Joanna Newsom that I left my wife and children, all of whom I adored more than anything in that world which I left behind and to which I will never go back. My defence is sound, you’ll see.

I’d checked myself into the hospital, just like they tell you to if you’re experiencing difficulties in breathing, have a tight chest and your head is spinning. I passed swiftly through triage and onto a bed where they wired me to an ECG, took blood and then abandoned me to crisp blue curtains and the metronomic beep of an ignored monitor. Continue reading “Jack by Gene Farmer”

A Bacon Sandwich by Jim Gibson

I leave the house in my jogging bottoms and hoody. It’s the not so early morning in spring and I’m headed up to the corner shop for a loaf of bread and bacon, you know the stuff that says with added water on the packet like it’s something to be proud of, because it’s Saturday and when you live on your own, you’ve got to give yourself little rewards for making it to another weekend. Couples get to lie in together with hangovers but, when you’re on your own, the bed just doesn’t stay warm and a bacon sandwich on buttered white bread is a home remedy that feels like it’s been unconsciously passed down through the ages. Continue reading “A Bacon Sandwich by Jim Gibson”

Charon’s Amusement Arcade by BR Williams

It really messed me up, it did. For months after my discharge, even the sound of my own farts would send me, you know, wherever it was I went. I would just freeze up. Go into a kind of dead-face trance. I was a big lad back then, and it was difficult for people to get me moving again once I’d stopped. So I’d end up staying there for a while like, in the street, wherever, just staring at the grey clouds on the horizon. At one stage, it got so bad that when I was offered a job at the local arcade – one of them bandit places – my counsellor practically begged me not to take it. She said the flashing lights and the noise of the coins dropping would be too much for me to handle. She made it sound like I’d end my shift fitting on the mucky carpet there, like some sort of fucking fish. But I had to give it a try. It was the only job offer I’d had since landing back on civvy street, and staying in the house all day with my parents tip-toeing nervously around me, well that was sending me another kind of crazy. I was starting to feel like one of them fucking bombs I was so Continue reading “Charon’s Amusement Arcade by BR Williams”

After the 10th Date by Sam Frost

I’ll make jokes about death. Give names to the bunnies locked between coyote teeth as we walk through the forest with bare feet. Go to your apartment. Drop to the floor. Hide under blankets until the air is too warm. Stick heads out and kiss. Stand up, I’ll watch as the covers shift off, leave you naked. Grab a bottle from the counter. Come back. Take the first sip then pass it to me. I’ll crinkle my face and say no more. But that just means I want you to get a glass of water for me to sip after each pull. You’ll know that.

Play music. Dance with me. Wait till our eyes are clouded just a bit. I’ll look up at you. You’ll look down. The whole world between my nose and yours. Eyes lock. We’ll have to fill the gap. Lace your fingers through my hair. Sit on the ground. Grab the bottle. Continue reading “After the 10th Date by Sam Frost”

Before Faking Your Own Death… by Paul Case

RUCKSACK

  • 1 x tooth brush
  • 1 x toothpaste (100ml)
  • 1 x shower gel (100ml)
  • 2 x t shirts, pants, socks
  • 1 x jumper
  • 1 x anorak
  • 1 x shorts
  • 2 x good books
  • Flip flops
  • Tobacco, rizla, filter, lighter
  • I-pod (nb delete nostalgic songs)
  • Earphones (splash out on DECENT pair)
  • Passport

Continue reading “Before Faking Your Own Death… by Paul Case”

‘Pairty’ by A.G. Kayman

Pairty

 

Goat an invite fae the boy up the stair. A wee pairty he wis huvin fur his birthday, an he wondered if Ah fancied comin up fur a couple o beers. At first Ah thought, Christ, a room fu o folk Ah dinnae ken, drinkin, gettin pished, mibbie talkin aboot fitba or politics or that. Ah cannae be daein wi aw that cairry oan. Continue reading “‘Pairty’ by A.G. Kayman”

‘Relax’ by A.G. Kayman

Relax

‘Ye’re so fuckin tense,’ he says. An in ma heid Ah’m like, whit the fuck, if ye want tae make somebdy less tense then the worst thing ye kin say is ‘Ye’re so fuckin tense’. Ah mean, whit guid is that gonnae dae?

Ah actually feel like sayin that tae him, bit Ah dinnae want tae end up back oan the rock ‘n’ roll, so fuck that fur a game o soadjurz. Jist huv tae grin an bear it Ah suppose – minus the grin obviously.

‘Seriously, man, jist relax,’ he says. ‘Ivryhin’s easier when ye relax, take it fae me.’

Ah take a deep breath an look at the flair. ‘Yes, chef,’ Ah say.

‘Look at me when ye’re talkin tae me,’ he says. Continue reading “‘Relax’ by A.G. Kayman”

The Arsonist Magazine Editon 01 Now Available For Purchase!!!

The Arsonist Magazine Edition 01 – available to purchase here

Image of The Arsonist Magazine Edition 01
Flammable materials from 32 incandescent international poets writers artists and photographers.

Featuring the best poetry, flash fiction, photography, art, interviews and features from around the world, including the UK, Japan, Canada, USA, Malaysia, India, Philippines, Sweden:

stephanie roberts – Saquina Karla C. Guiam – Penny Goring – Adrianna Robertson – Anneghem Wall – Dawn Fredericks – badpoem – Dean Lilleyman – Antony Owen – Aina Izzah – Bruno Neiva – Paul Hawkins – Keith Ford – Joseph Ridgwell – Dhiyanah Hassan – C. R. Resetarits – Rob True – Sophie Pitchford – Jamie Thrasivoulou – Martin Appleby – Liz Zumin – Siddharth Dasgupta – Ben Williams – Caitlin Meredith – Adam Steiner – Jim Gibson – V.M. – Fredric Nord – Mark Goodwin – Hiromi Suzuki – Trevor Wright – Howie Good

The Arsonist Magazine Edition 01 is a 92 page full colour/b&w matt/gloss perfect-bound A5 magazine (this is a limited edition and, being the inaugural print publication from Burning House Press, is sure to be a collectible item)

 

The Arsonist Magazine Edition 01 – available to purchase here

 

Arsonist Contents Page

‘Shoot Out At The Neon Express’ by Simon Woodward

Some cold Jan morning Cruz and I were sitting at a Neon Express coffee bar, mouthing off about BlackGenie’s latest album cover; mirrored vinyl shining through star shaped perforations in the polyplas sleeve, a mini constellation in the shape of the BG’s glyph. Cruz strongly disagreeing with the criticism that I’m laying down on the lack of artistry “…any one can just cut a bit of the sleeve out to show the vinyl underneath, but what’s the story… you know ?. This album is about something, so why don’t they make a picture of it ?, this isn’t album art it’s packaging design man…!” after gulping his stale Mericano Cruz casually wiped his mouth and replies “you think with your eyes too much bud…”, sighing I put the album down on the counter and reach for my quadro espresso. “you know what I’m saying Cruz, I know you do…” Continue reading “‘Shoot Out At The Neon Express’ by Simon Woodward”

‘First Class Stamp’ by Nick Black

First Class Stamp

 

Terence Stamp in ‘Far From The Madding Crowd’, that’s who I think of as the doctor pokes about my ancient lady bits. Terence Stamp in his cavalry outfit on a hillside, jacket red as rose hip. It’s a nicer picture, that, than the top of this doctor’s head, all mottled like the backs of my hands. No, it’s worse, more like the bottom of a teacup with the floaty bits left. He wants to be careful with that. Continue reading “‘First Class Stamp’ by Nick Black”

‘Just Pull It Out’ by Peter Jordan

Just Pull It Out

 

The doctor was getting younger, by the minute. And I kept telling him I recognized him from somewhere.

The more I sucked on the gas the more I knew him, and the younger he got. When I’d first come in he was middle-aged. Now he was early twenties. We’d shared an experience together, we were good mates, didn’t he know that?

There was sweat on his forehead, his top lip.

He looked to the nurse. ‘We need to call a surgeon.’ Continue reading “‘Just Pull It Out’ by Peter Jordan”

‘Jem’ by Kate Jones

Jem

 

‘Bet I can climb to the top’, Jem Mason says, round blue eyes burning in a sun-touched, freckled face. We all stare up at the roof of the almost finished house.

‘No way,’ Cory Sullivan says.

‘Bet you three strawberry laces I can,’ Jem says, already pacing towards the gates of the building site.

The bet was on. Continue reading “‘Jem’ by Kate Jones”

2 Poems & 2 Flash Fictions by Aina Izzah

Less Than Human

 

Get lost,

Less human than me,

I’ll go to sleep,

In thousands of movements,

Under the eyes of heaven,

Amounts to devils I can’t see,

 

I could pray,

For a life more humane,

I should cry,

Hands stained with sin,

And get on running,

To the East, Continue reading “2 Poems & 2 Flash Fictions by Aina Izzah”

5th Weekend – TJ Corless

5th Weekend

 

We’re in this old converted fire station and Sean is on stage doing a speech about how he draws inspiration from nostalgia and the working class and his mates and how his art means everything to him and how he’s so happy that we all came out to support him. He finishes and the hall full of a good few hundred people erupts with applause and cheers. He jumps off the stage and these four skinny lads get on the instruments and start thrashing out this punky song. Continue reading “5th Weekend – TJ Corless”

Submissions open – 1st Edition of The Arsonist Magazine

SUBMISSIONS FOR THE 1ST EDITION OF THE ARSONIST MAGAZINE NOW OPEN – SEND US YOUR BEST – CANT WAIT TO SEE WHAT YOU MADE X

NO FESTIVAL’S COMPLETE WITHOUT DRUGS SUPPLIED BY THE FESTIVAL FLY by Thomas McColl

NO FESTIVAL’S COMPLETE WITHOUT DRUGS SUPPLIED BY THE FESTIVAL FLY

Even though Proboscis Pete – a.k.a. The Festival Fly – may look like a fly with his small oval calloused face and wrap-around shades, he only ever sits on good shit. Continue reading “NO FESTIVAL’S COMPLETE WITHOUT DRUGS SUPPLIED BY THE FESTIVAL FLY by Thomas McColl”

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