And our bridge, really it’s nothing like the one in the book. You could totally bet all your shit that Christopher Robin didn’t mind for dog mess when he ran across to the other side. You’d bet your life there wasn’t a kaleidoscope of glass amongst the gravel, shattered and twinkling in the sun.
Our bridge, it’s not even made of wood.
Small Acts of Rebellion is a nihilistic emotive satire of two sisters trying to escape an unhappy reality through small acts of rebellion and childhood nostalgia.
…and yeah, there’s pooh-sticks 🙂
You can read it now at Solarcide
Honoured to be a part of this with so many awesome & talented authors.
Flash Me! The Sinthology, the latest anthology project from Solarcide, is available in paperback right now via Amazon. They got it up a few days faster than estimated, which is very cool.
This is a collection featuring twenty-six wicked and decadent flash and micro-fiction pieces from twenty-six wonderful authors.
The book is edited by Solarcide’s own Martin Garrity and Nathan Pettigrew, and guest curated by Chester Pane. Featuring work by Rebecca Jones-Howe, Bryan Howie, Alex S. Johnson, Shannon Barber, Jason Wayne Allen, Terasa Skultety, and many more. The full table of contents can be see here.
We’re very excited to see this release come through. We worked hard on it. It is great to finally see it unleashed upon the world in all its dastardly glory.
We’d love it if you checked out the book. And if you want to be extra…
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By emily slaney
Angry war faces. Snarled teeth and furrowed brows.
Born to Kill.
That’s what we drew on those eggs.
Whole eggs fished from the white plastic swingbin, maybe three days past their use by date.
Felt tip pen smudged against our eager fingers as we lined them up along the window sill. Four fat soldiers.
Me and Sam in our cramped flat, Mum looked harassed, said, “Behave,” and went to lie down.
But Sam never listens.
Pushing the window open a crack, Sam’s on reconnaissance.
“The target’s in range. Arm yourself Sergeant Davey.”
Old man Foggerty.
Always tapping his window and yelling when we played football on the lawn. Told us we’d ruin it. The same turf peppered with his Lucy’s dark brown dog-turds, coating your football, wedged in the cracks in your trainers. Trailed across our kitchen floor.
Missile in hand I hesitate.
“Chicken shit,” says Sam and drops the first egg.
It falls short, an explosion of yolk on beige nylon trousers.
A furry lightning bolt charges through Foggerty’s legs to lap up the fetid puddle.
shrieking, falling backwards. Grasping at air, he tumbles. His old-man head cracks, a soft-boiled egg on hard paving.
“Davey?” Mum calls from the bedroom, woken by the cacophony.
The moment there’s trouble, Sam’s gone.
“It was Sam.” I say, small voice trembling.
Mum’s voice faint and sleepy, sighing, “Aren’t you a bit old for imaginary friends now, Davey?”
In my ear Sam whispering:
“Soldier: K.I.A. Requesting back-up.”
*Soldiers was originally conceived for LitReactor’s Flash smack down challenge of 250 words or less. The story prompt was a photo of a basket of eggs.
Two hundred and one
Two hundred and two
Bliss, her fingers wrapped tightly around my ankles, her boney knees pressing down on the tops of my feet, on top of my toes, holding them still, says, “Life ain’t a bowl of peaches, so suck it up, bitch.”
You can now read Some Kind of Beautiful here. (Link deactivated, site no longer exists)