Fiction

Forget Me Not

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JOHN IRVING CLARKE When he woke, the woman was standing over him. He took in his surroundings – the scrubby bushes under which he’d thrown himself, the wind barging through the paltry shelter, the darkening sky – and he would…

Moonlight visions

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SILVANO GREGOLI.  THE 60s, AREA OF PIAN DELLA TURA Mondovì, Saturday afternoon, Piazza Adua. Spring is at its fullest but the mountains are still white. We, the people of the refuge, are ready to get on our Vespa and Lambretta…

What Else Would the Son of a Cat Do…?

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GABRIEL ROSENSTOCK What Else Would the Son of a Cat Do…? …only kill a mouse! Of course! I have been a member of Gaels Anonymous for fourteen years now, I’d say. Maybe longer, even? You’d think I’d remember, considering how fateful a…

Put your feet up

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JOHN I. CLARKE “We’ll stay at home and take it easy. We’ll avoid the half-term crowds. Unwind a bit. You can put your feet up and relax.” It had been agreed then – no week in the Lakes after all.…

The Galloping Horses

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JOKHA AL HARTHI Nassir al-Abd does not understand anymore; he used to conceptualize life as something stable. He used to touch the stability of life, but he knew, in a mysterious way, that it is not as stable as it…

Dear Anne

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JOHN I. CLARKE Method and organisation I will shore against my ruins. A couple of hours will see me through these exercise books, a bit of flick and tick while Eric is preparing the dinner. Eric? Oh he’s quite the…