The Village Where Everyone Keeps Punching Themselves in the Mouth

Categories: Fiction
by
 

The guys in the office laughed when you were assigned this one. You’ll know them by their scabbed knuckles, they said, by their clawed right hands cradled always at chest level like twitching beach-rescued starfish.

 

Pinniped

Categories: Fiction
by
 

We know they must smell like the dustbins behind a seafood restaurant, although we can’t smell them from here. They look as cold and alien to the touch as the part of your leg that finds its way out from under the bedclothes in winter.

 

The God Quetzalcoatl Has Retired and Now Runs a Pub in South Manchester

Categories: Fiction
by
 

He likes this new work: granting, recurrently, the single recurring prayer of the drunk; the way the sallow light drags ruby through the bottom of a pint of stout.