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.

The Capricorn

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.