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 Rebecca Clark || There is a woman sat next to me, in the middle seat.
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.
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