Fiction

On days like these, when the air is so cold it bites at your face and hands, and your breath is visible before you, one cannot help but think of the past. Amelie had always been the type of person to prefer the past. There was something comforting in its solidness, something reassuring in the fact that everything had already happened and that she, as an observer from the present, could look back on it without having to make the same decisions all over again. It wasn’t just her own past she liked. As a child she buried her head

Don’t look back in anger they say, but I’ll look back in rage. I can never let things go without a fight, you can say I beat a dead horse until it’s back to life. Knowing deep down I can’t go back, no matter how hard I fight fuels me with an indescribable amount of fury, bashing the door psychotically pleading to let me go back in time. In the moment it’s euphoric, it feels like forever swearing that change will never happen to me, things will stay the same forever. Even when I know there’s a deadline. Even when

My dad taught me how to toast campfire marshmallows when I was young. But no matter how hard I tried to follow his instructions, I always burnt them. All my cousins got to enjoy their smores and to the corner, I had a growing pile of coal like I was on some naughty list. I followed the same recipe every year, only to end up eating char again and again, I thought I should pretend I burnt it on purpose, and so I did, my smouldering secret. It’s better than admitting I still don’t know or that I am just

James never made it home.  There’d never been much to mourn over anyway: narrow and unstable roads along every streetway, rundown stores left to rot in debt, fallen leaves that crunched beneath his feet, echoes of children laughing while he remained inside. A town hidden from a world he yearned to explore – a haven he’d wished would exile him. It was home, yet never really was at all. It was home, but the hole in his heart still ached. Never had he been complacent, nor content with how easily he’d memorised every streetway. What had belonged to him was

Eleanor was the sort of person who didn’t dance. It was not that she didn’t want to, more that she was rather unable to do so. When she was in uni she would sometimes sit alone in her bedroom at 3am, both earphones in, blasting Chappell Roan, and a strange urge would come over her causing her to shrug her shoulders up and down instead of writing the essay that was due in six hours. It was the closest she would come to dancing though. The second other people appeared it was as if all desire, all knowledge of how,

Content Warnings: emotional abuse   A delicate young flower, unpicked by the bare hands of a malicious suitor. She would never allow someone to extract her. Yet the young prince had been gentle, and the naïve princess had felt herself blossom. They’d met amongst the stars, her light brighter than the sky. She had a captivation that was irresistible. Eyes like sapphires; lips red as the rose; hair black as ebony; skin white as snow.  All eyes had been on her. The prettiest accessory. How could he not resist? Within his introduction, he mentioned things he knew she liked, pretended

Content Warnings: Hospital Environment, Implied Terminal Illness A hospital room. 5:00pm.  Only the hum of equipment and soft movement outside is heard. There is a bed with various monitors on either side. A fluorescent light shines from above, flickering occasionally while a warm champagne glow from the back window washes over the bed. A young woman lies gazing out the window, watching the sociability of the streets beyond the smudged glass. A drawing book lies open on the bedside table.    Athena: Time passes slowly in hospital. Nurses come, nurses go as does everyone else while you're stuck in bed.

Content Warning: Bullying & Discussion of Mental Health Every story must have its protagonist. Its saviour. Someone who has a purpose, who leads the plot. Though that person couldn’t possibly be you. Yes, you. So who will you choose to be instead?   Protagonist A: A hero: incapable of mistakes. Untouched by bad guys, your pursuit of glory is never fractured by those who desire your downfall. You’re a god, with the world at your feet. You have everything you could ever want: the job, the fortune, the lover, and especially the recognition. Your strength is unmatched; flaws indistinguishable. Therefore,

It was different now they didn’t talk. Olive and Lotte had always been something, even when they were fresh-faced fifteen-year-olds, too young to put words to the feelings that were growing between them. By the time they’d reached second year they were everything. But now, after Olive had gone off to Italy for six months and come back, something had changed.  If Olive had to, she would probably pinpoint the moment of their decline as that argument they’d had one evening in Rome. It had been months without seeing each other in-person, tied together only by phone calls. Late at

Not long after they leave, Will arrives. He is here to build my bed for me. I greet him with red eyes and a tired smile, he knows I’ve been crying. It’s just the two of us, surrounded by boxes and a hopeful future. We head into my bedroom where I show him the box of the bed frame. I bring the floor cushion into the room to watch as he starts unpacking. He tells me he has done this twice before, so my expectations are big. It took us four hours. Four fucking hours to build the frame. It

Every time that I hang out with you and them I feel so alienated but I feel like an alien would fit in more than me  because they are inherently interesting and I just feel like the most boring person alive   I can’t keep up with any of the jokes while the three of you go back and forth, faster and faster and I force myself to laugh  in grating harmony   I grapple with possible things to say but none of them seem worthwhile sometimes one of you says something I had thought of  and I resent myself

Content Warning: Violence There was a house up ahead on the left. Amidst the gloom of what was a cool winter’s night, it appeared tall and grand in what seemed like an abyss of nothingness for miles on end. There I remained, confined to its interior with very few visitors. It made sense to pass it– surely there were signs further down the road; why stop for help? Hence why I was thrilled to see the lost couple quickly pulling into the driveway.  The two-storey house, further away from the others down the road, appeared rather large with a decently