Issue 9 – Fiction

The kitchen table was cold to the touch as the old man wiped crumbs that had fallen from his rye toast onto the tile floor below where the old dog waited patiently to gobble them up, just as she had done every day for the last fourteen years.

In Granford, if you need a doctor, don’t bother consulting the yellow pages. 

It’s early July. I seem to be calm and cool, but this track across the glaciers needs good weather, and who can guarantee that?

“I don’t think I can do this,” Alstrom said, the words directed at his own lap.