Tag: Prose

  • Familiarity

    Familiarity

    —

    by

    The Tert
    in

    I know those eyes. The cold unfeeling blue. I know that malicious smile. The grinding and retching of the teeth. I know those freckles. The splattered pattern like a bleach stained dress. The blonde hair. The gaunt cheeks. The vacant stare. I know those features. Because they are features of me. I slowly reach out…

  • We Need a Pianist

    We Need a Pianist

    —

    by

    Shay Keats
    in , ,

    I arrive at the Pavilion at 7:30pm in my best maroon suit. Stressing about my fingers. I’ve parked, engine’s off. Unfurl my fingers, staring, and thinking, they’re not broken anymore, and there won’t be an accident tonight that changes that. So, I go inside. The Pavilion is one of those old and grand buildings that’s…

  • Siege

    Siege

    —

    by

    Adrienne Slattery
    in

    The Quaint residence abides around a cold street corner at 92 C Gosemer Rd, Meralvile, where tall apartments tower over a red door. The porch angles so slightly to the left, leaving an embellishment of chipped paint on its corner where the timber meets the concrete. This is where Mrs Quaint returns home in the…

  • Doomsday, Man

    Doomsday, Man

    —

    by

    Zoe Petersen
    in

    I’m no blushing bride when it comes to a good snog sesh, but someone’s stank ass breath can really kill the vibe.      This gaping maw throws an absolute rancid gush of air at me, landing like a wet sock across my cheek. I am not breathing that. Not chill, dude. Their little liver-purple tongue is…

  • Hold the Note

    Hold the Note

    —

    by

    Adrienne Slattery
    in ,

    It’s late morning, and the paterfamilias has donned his formal attire. The toga cloaking the loose folds of his chiton is blue with a fluffy grey lining on the collar and sash. His bare feet are swathed in a pair of long woollen socks, pulled high over the rolls of his baggy grey sweatpants. From…

  • Seven Strands – Candace Zalloua

    Seven Strands – Candace Zalloua

    —

    by

    The Tert
    in ,

    The first string was violet, as many were. A co-worker I rarely spoke to, apart from telling her coffee orders. I refused to be excited because I refused to be brave. Then one day, she knocked three coffees off the machine that she was in the middle of making. Hot coffee poured onto her hands,…

  • Can one Coco Pop make chocolate milk?

    Can one Coco Pop make chocolate milk?

    —

    by

    The Tert
    in

    I sit in the empty public bus, my brightness up, my ears submerged in Michael Jackson while delving into an array of Buzzfeed quizzes such as, “What Disney Princess Are You?” (Cinderella) or “Do you remember the entire Twilight series?” (I do). A rich concoction of tunes remains in the queue, a playlist composed of…

  • The Season of My Hibernation and Rebirth – Mya Hicks

    The Season of My Hibernation and Rebirth – Mya Hicks

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    by

    The Tert
    in ,

     My transformation began with a single wiry hair—long, grey, jagged at the end—sprouting from under my chin where the flesh is doughiest. I’d always uprooted these rogue hairs as soon as they reared their monstrous heads (as a girl I was taught to be meticulous when it came to my appearance) but on this day…

  • WE ARE ALL BEETLES – Jacob Wood

    WE ARE ALL BEETLES – Jacob Wood

    —

    by

    The Tert
    in ,

         All morning he twined the coarse rope through his hands. But now he was just trying to ignore the agonising thudding beneath the angry anthill that had formed on his left forearm. It was tipped a violent red and sensitive to any sort of glancing touch. The skin there was gummy with sweat, pus building…