Special Issue: Myths and Legends
Rabbit Island by Robert Barrett

The lobster boat pitched and slapped in the chop as they drove hard out of harbour, and westward, beneath the blackened, limestone cliffs. Here and there, two or three shags stood together, on ledges high in the rock; and higher still, puffs of green and yellowish grass appeared.

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Old Gray by Jason Zwiker

There was a time when men ran as wolves through the forest by day each winter. Not until the sun sank low in the sky would they wander back to town, slough off their wolf-skins, then hang them by the door with a “Honey, I’m home.

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Let a Song Go Out of My Heart by Elaine Chiew 

The little girl often squatted herself on pavements to observe the movements of ants in crevices. Held her fingers out to rain drops, watched them stipple the petals of hibiscus, pearl the stalks of flames-of-the-forest.

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Black Annis by Matt Kendrick

Her body is on the ground by the pigpen. The Abbess kneels beside it, washing away the blood, scrubbing at the blue dye until there is only the winter white of her skin.

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The One Who Lies in Wait by Melissa Llanes Brownlee

My son was born a shark. Mother told me we had to return him to the ocean as soon as he swam out of my birthing sea, his thrashing fins marking their passage along my canal, an explosion of salt and blood, soaking the woven mats beneath me.

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Morse Code by Elizabeth Cabrera

The old man fell asleep in his car, his nostrils pressed softly against the steering wheel, but the car kept going, because the old man’s foot was not asleep, was still pressing down hard, and later they would say, it’s not really his fault, he’s such an old man.

Fulfilling by Fiona McKay

Kate is not ‘imagining it’. There are small tufts of pale fluff on her neck, and no, it’s not ‘just a tissue in the washing machine’ as John suggests. There’s nothing drifting off his shirts, nothing clinging to Ella’s favourite black top, Josh’s Minecraft t-shirts. It’s more solid than tissue, just on her clothes. And only she can see it.

I’ll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours by Eliot Li

I tell you I’ve only ever shown it to a girl who I met on a tour bus in Moscow, where I was traveling with my parents. She had bad acne, and she really liked Duran Duran.

Amelia Earhart Knew Seven Latin Words for Fire by Joe Kapitan

Ignis, the flaming wreckage, bubbling rubber, liquified cloth, her skin charred and blistering, acrid smoke, the tiny thunders of survival’s kicks

Bog Iron by Shane Larkin

We make stops on the way to our bog plot to look at the little skeletons. Dad tells me about them. Curlews and skylarks in dancing poses. Tiny skulls.