Issue Three

Welcome to Issue Three of LossLit Magazine.

Admiration of Hermit Crabs

You pray to the blue light house,
be alive, be lingering, dear beleaguered.

By Julia Lewis


We buried a bird
Behind our ancestral home

By Pratheesh Ramachandran

Against regulations

Today, there’d be no going home
for her boy, no matter how easy
his remains might be to steal,

By Vanessa Gebbie

Abney Park Is My Slice

I stopped by Abney Park to mourn a dead lover I never had. Her face flapped in the wind, slipped into a plastic wallet that was speckled with droplets of the morning dew; the features organised into an expression I couldn’t decipher.

By Jonny Keyworth

Three Stories

I have lived in fifty houses

It was the last thing I took to bed with me, a she, a cat, human in that it knew me.

By Josephine Corcoran

How About This Heat

It’s the hottest night of the year. An Indian summer in late September. Eli parks his truck outside the bar and sits for a minute with his hands on the wheel, watching how the red and blue of the neon signs flicker across his fingers.

By Spencer Chou

The Window

She is dark against the square of light. The back of her, curved now, looks mutely upon the green space caught tight within that square. I know how it stretches, how it rolls out to the foot of the mountain and gathers up there, but this sharp triangle of grass, this geometry, fed in through that one portal of light, is all she knows.

By R.M. Clarke

Heartbreak Admin

Today I received my decree absolute. I’ve never been married, this was the millennial’s version; an email confirming that the deposit I’d paid on the flat I’d shared with my ex-partner of six years had been refunded.

By Michelle Thomas

Yazidi Figs

Three thousand miles east of Paris we find you
one of many, moist, rosy and glittering.

By Natalia Spencer

His Small House

When I cried out “He left us!” from a woven mat in my living room, us meant me and my three children. I might have added to that his brothers, but I did not mean his small house, who walked in just at that moment.

By Diana Nyakyi


Every dawn she looks up, sucks on doing words
to break her fast, breathes in the day.

By Di Slaney

Inside the Rain

It is a slow day, and grey as if the dust has bled into the sky. The few thin, shabby trees offer little shade in the directionless glare but the children scatter into the yard regardless, magpie jubilant at their early release from the sweltering tin schoolroom.

By Kay Orchison

7 Minutes of Sweat

Week 1

Head sweat frozen by heat. Eyes peeling out of their sockets, each individually draped in a woolly blanket that itches and irritates. Shoulders have fallen off; the tendons lie bare and stretched. Throat pushes boulders down to soft shit lungs. Creased horrid underwear hovers dripping ooze on neon soft mat.

By Alex Donaghy

The Nest

All through the early summer I watched blue tits flying in and out of the nesting boxes, one fixed to the wall among the rambling roses in the garden, the other next to the apricot tree in the orchard.

By Peter Reason


She’s got grapes, a bunch of little sour ones like dull pearls, and she’s sucking them in, pop pop pop. You can hear them hitting the roof of her mouth.

By Francoise Harvey