by ANDREW McAULEY
Beer and Fire by Alan Levine | Flickr
Marty O’Brien pushed through the door of his local, nodded at the barman, then tripped on an errant shoe left discarded near the door.
‘Ah, for feck’s sake...’ Marty groaned as he struggled to his feet. He dusted off his tweed trousers and cast a scowl at the barman.
‘Watch yourself there,’ the barman said in a sing-song voice as he dried a glass with a towel.
Marty cast his gaze around the bar. The pub was vacant except for the barman, unusual as at least a couple of locals tended to wait outside for the eleven o’clock opening time, and it was already quarter to twelve. The floor of the bar was littered with shoes of all kinds; trainers, smart leather shoes, hiking boots, wellingtons. All lay together in pairs as if the owners had removed them and left the premises without thinking to put them back on.
‘Whose are these shoes all over the place?’ said Marty.
by BOB SHAR
by ALYA DEMINA
by LEAH MUELLER
by CHRIS DIGIORGIO
by DAN TREMAGLIO
She wanted to write a song.
She did not want to write a song.
She loved music and how it made her
feel and was born to write and play it.
She might have been tone deaf.
She never felt more alive than when
performing in front of people.
She was often terrified and never far
She did not own an alarm clock because
she could open her eyes at any exact
minute and more often passed the entire
night pacing the villa of her imagination
in the nude and moonlight.
by JOE BONGIORNO
by GLENN A. BRUCE
by L. MACK
by SARAH BARKER
by WARREN J. COX
by PAUL SMITH
by KYLE HEMMINGS
by SAUL LEMEROND
by CATHERINE MOORE
by CHAD W. LUTZ
by DL SHIREY
Escape From Spiderhead
George Saunders / The New Yorker
Behind the Hand - Keoni Cabral- Flickr
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