by Kate Chauncey
We’re in his parents’ bedroom.
The feeling in the butterflied cavity of my chest resonates indecisiveness against his neck.
He explains the light overhead.
Energy-saving, he says, a bulbous dome of half-light that hovers, suspended between on and off all night, cancelled only by blunt forefinger.
In his twice-borrowed rugby jersey; the name in the collar reads R. Whitman - not his name - I lie on my back and think, It looks like the moon. Swollen and glowing, blank as the plane of the moon.
By Tom Byrne
Anton looked at his watch again. He was still early. He hated being early almost as much as he hated being late. He was condemned to sit in the coffee shop and not smoke. Waiting and not smoking were his least favourite things. It was a sacrifice, a requirement toward a worthy end. Was the end worthy? He had allowed himself to hope so. He was a collection of sacrifices. He was clean-shaven and every item of clothes he had on was clean, including new shoes. There would be raised eyebrows, if the other officers at the station saw the new shoes. That was nothing compared to the inevitable reaction to his clean car and that he had actually vacuumed the interior.
by Roger Young
We conceived our son in a stranger’s bedroom that was being used as a coat check during a penthouse party high above the city. As we furiously coupled we could hear the party on the roof above us. Genteel chatter and laughter, the clink of glasses, a general refinement with the light beat of a generic sort of music behind it; in front of us a sea of black glass and reflected light. I was lost in the manic thrusting that comes from the fear of being discovered when we heard the scream. Something flashed past the window.
By Lerato Mmutle
The Pick Up: You’re standing by the side of the road, cigarette in hand, exhaling into the chill of night. Restless, your eyes dart from here to there, aimlessly querying the dark. With every passing car headlight, your pupils contract and dilate. All you can hear, besides the redundancy of cars shooting past you, is the cricket chirping - generously keeping you company. A flashy CLK Mercedes Benz stops near you and hoots, startling you into action. You walk toward it and after a brief negotiation, you get in. Something does not feel right, you know it but you do it anyway. The car screeches off, leaving an indelible mark on the tarmac.
By Lerato Mmutle
A sharp pain in your head greets you ‘Good Morning’ when you finally come to. You’re on the bed, alone and fully dressed. A white sofa rests near the corner of the room, regal in its position. Above it is an obscure painting; somehow, its imagery captures the harsh rejection of the night before. The bright curtains embrace the light of day breaking into the room. As you turn over with a big sigh, you feel the bump from the cruel shove. You spot an unmarked red envelope on the bedside table. You sneak a peak, there’s a wad of cash and a note: ‘Keep an eye on the rabbit in the cage .The others will settle down once fed. I’ll be back soon. Hector.’