by Jennifer Coffeen || Sharon was stirring kirsch brandy into her whipping cream when she first heard the hiss.
by Chloe Weare || There is glitter in the bathtub.
by Sheila Kinsella || On a rainy Sunday afternoon in October, I pour myself another glass of red wine. Whiskey miaows and shifts on my lap, settling down as I sit back, glass in hand. The quizmaster on the TV prattles on in the background, a backdrop to my thoughts. Cocktail hour arrives earlier by the day.
by Anna Maconochie | One cold evening, a woman was stopped on the street by a fortune teller.
by Isabelle Marie Flynn || The first thing I learn is that she wears handmade clothes. The second is that she’s a fucking Capricorn. You spit the words at me between a swig of beer and a mouthful of garlic bread, shaking your head across the chequered tablecloth.
by Annabel Banks || I was fifteen when he first turned up, some flashy guy in a leather coat with starlight in his eyes.
by Gráinne O’Hare || Blanche and Orla don’t notice Laoise crying at first; they are engaged in lively debate about how much vodka a tampon can hold.
by Fionna Cumming || March hits like a fist, these Ides the first we've truly had to be wary of since Caesar bled, and we didn't heed the warnings.
by Sian Norris || "It just doesn't look right," Iris said, wringing her hands. Meghan couldn't take her eyes off those hands. She didn't think she'd ever seen anyone actually wring their hands before.
by Willow Barnosky || Inside a glass box, on a small pedestal, a sculpture of a green woman calls to me.