Welcome to Issue Five of LossLit Magazine.
AB crunched across the ice towards the shuttle station. His footprints were still visible from the day before, and from many days before that. They stretched out across the plain, in front of him and behind him, days and days of footprints. AB didn’t like to look at those old footprints too much. They made him feel sad, and he didn’t know why.
The city was in chaos. Half the roads had been blocked off, and the rest were tilting at crazy angles, so that people had to cling to the tarmac to stop themselves from falling off. Some of them wore crampons attached to their foreheads and arms like tephillim. Scaffolding sprouted from cracks in the footpaths, unpurposed for construction, just free-standing frameworks of platforms and poles, climbing nowhere.
Sabina and Suhel, wearing dusty clothes,
drenched in a sudden downpour,
cringing in the cold,
seek a warm place this winter morning.
The breath of the land
is an orchid night passing
over a rumble of stone
roads; it is a gentle
In the following text I will compare two kinds of waiting, the first, which agitated and anxious, is written through Roland Barthes’ scenography of the waiting lover as seen in his book A Lover’s Discourse (1990). The second kind of waiting, which is bland and uneventful, is drawn through an alternative kind of time, the kind that often slips by unnoticed and is easily lost or forgotten.
In August of 2014, a fun back and forth on Twitter about literary canons between publisher Kit Caless (Influx Press) and writer Aki Schilz (The Literary Consultancy) turned into a conversation that quickly gave birth to the hashtag #LossLit: a hashtag for original, creative tweets driven by loss.
Cock-blocked, I told her
But how would you even— ?
That’s the trouble with straight people:
Clumsy, Western and terrified, I am the buyer. The jeweller’s workshop in Shanghai reeks of green tea and pink roses; incongruous and well past blown, clinging on, a death scent hangs about their skirts. Mr Wang, tall as a fir tree, is the maker. His dark eyes picked out by angry pinprick spots of light, much like the dots of colour in all the opalescent and broken shoal of fish now flooding the floor.