Fiction

The Wind by Philip Quinn

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The Wind

by Philip Quinn

 
 

Photo Copyright © Erik La Prade, 2015

Photo Copyright © Erik La Prade, 2015

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The Marks on Your Back by Brent van Staalduinen

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The Marks on Your Back

by Brent van Staalduinen

 
 

"Scaffold Detrius", Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015

“Scaffold Detrius”, Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015

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Secondary Living by Adam Kelly Morton

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Secondary Living

by Adam Kelly Morton

 
 

"Last Call at RedStar", Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015

“Last Call at RedStar”, Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015

 
 

The Oyster Shack is closed and Bob is drunk, upstairs doing his cash. With the lights out and the front door locked, the cops won’t be able to see Carole and me having a few nightcaps after hours. Not that they come around on Tuesdays anyhow. Or ever.
We’re on to whiskey with our beers. Bob’s iPod is playing Exile on Main Street. Carole is beside me smoking Next Reds, ashing into a conch as Mick belts out “Loving Cup”. Bob might join us later. It’ll be all right if he does, because there’s no way I’m going to fuck this bitch tonight. Tomorrow morning is another story. I’m hungry for it when I’m hung. It’s the best cure.
“D’où tu viens, exactement?” Carole asks through her brown teeth; when we first met, a few days ago, she told me they’re because of a calcium deficiency from when she was an infant. But I’m pretty sure it’s nicotine too. Dentists nowadays can fix brown teeth. Otherwise, Carole’s not bad. Her hair is greasy, but blonde when she washes it. She’s skinny, but she’s got a fine ass. I’ll tap that shit first thing, with her lying on her side. Just the way I used to with June.
For now, Carole wants to know where I grew up. I light up another Players and take a pull of my pint while staring up at the fisherman’s net. “Doesn’t matter,” I tell her. “Montreal.”
“Ouais, mais d’où?” She wants to know if I’m from the suburbs. Fucking downtown whores are all the same: French or English, they want to get an edge on you, so they can fuck you over. Why can’t they just be sweet?
Fuck it. I’ll tell her. “West Island,” I say.
“I knew it,” she says, in that nasal, whiny, Quebecker drawl — smoke pouring out of her dragon’s maw. “One time, I think about moving out there, for my two boys. But it too far from downtown without a car.”
I don’t say anything, and throw back my whiskey. Carole picks up our Cutty Sark and pours me another thick one, clanking the bottle back down on the blue tiles.

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Tenacious Wriggler by RM Graves

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Tenacious Wriggler

by RM Graves

 
 

"Foster City, Crowne Plaza", Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015

“Foster City, Crowne Plaza”, Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015

 
 
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Smiles and Serenity and Other Things Plumbed from the Depths by Paul-André Betito

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Smiles and Serenity and Other Things

Plumbed from the Depths

 

by Paul-André Betito

 
 

"The Wet Secrets, February 2015", Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015

“The Wet Secrets, February 2015”, Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015

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