Issue Eight

Welcome to Issue 8 of LossLit Magazine.



Calendar Girls

A beach. Blue sky. Somewhere in America.

We can hear the sea but we can’t see it.

Large sand dunes. It’s very hot.

A girl in a bikini lies centre stage on a beach towel with her back to us.

She doesn’t move or breath.

EVELYN WILDER a young detective kneels above the girl. WILDER is black, short and wears a police blue cap and jacket. Sergeant PETE REKKER stands above the body. He’s in his late forties, older, fatter, white with a Southern accent too. He talks into a walkie talkie.

He squints in the sun

By Max Wilkinson

Mushroom Speed Boosts

I gave up racing Logan for a while. It got boring. He is too good. He knows every shortcut, every shortcut within a shortcut, where to use the mushrooms. He set the fastest time on every track.

But I’ve been practicing. I’m ready.

Mario celebrates my return with a wahooooo!

Logan races as Donkey Kong. I’m always Luigi. Luigi is Mario’s under-appreciated brother.

First up, Mario Kart Stadium.

Come on then, this time you’re going down.


By Ben Reynolds


For my father

An owl was hooting in the tree-filled night.

By the old embers, which I could not stir

To yellow flame, I made my own small glow

Smoking a cigarette, near my father’s chair.

(He would not have approved.)  The inner light

Of evening in the house makes cobwebs grey.

By Imogen Russell Williams

Under the Maple Roots

The grave must be dug the old-fashioned way, by hand with pickaxes and shovels. One scoop of earth at a time. Three feet by eight feet by four and a half feet deep. Six feet is just an old western tale. No need or want to dig that deep.

The toughest graves to dig are at the bases of big oaks and maples. The upside is that it is typically a very old person to bury if the tree had time to get that big between buying the plot and needing it.

By Joshua Bealson

Snow, Sunday, Late February

We only had that one afternoon in the snow. We left the flat and meandered up to the park on the hill.

By James O’Neill

Not Waving, but Washing

“I am a man. 

I work downtown.

I give money to the missus.

Maybe I kick some when she runs a little short.

I give her a nice house. It has gas, electric light, and hot water.

All she has to do is keep it clean.”

            — Advert for the Hoover, c1945, United States


The first problem for all of us, men and women, is not to learn but to unlearn.”

            Gloria Steinem

By Tabitha Siklos


The indifferent scale.
The quarry, the calcite,
the silicon, the mine,
the lorry, the sulphite,
nanocarbon, the time.

By Ben Gwalchmai

A tribute to austerity

One day I will write of the horrors I witnessed that summer when the homes that once saw light and life were engulfed in flames.

By Sanmeet Kaur

Something like the beginning of love

Something like the beginning of love

might be  painted  into  the warm sky

tonight    twilight still wet         to the

By Olga Dermott-Bond

Why is it Called a Thunderstorm, When it’s the Lightning That Kills You?

I was scared of you as a child, and for most of my adult life.


We used to cautiously meet you at the front door to gauge the air and smell your breath when you arrived home from work.

By Katt Thompson

My Greenland Halibut

“It’s all going to pieces,” he moans.

“The door was open. I’m selling fish,” I say. “It’s frozen. I have it in the van. Do you like fish? Cod loins? Crab canapés? Greenland halibut? All excellent value. Keeps for months. Do you have a freezer?”

By Amanda Oosthuizen

Say Hello, Wave Goodbye

We stand on the roof of a car which does not belong to us, the icy air burning our lungs. Snow crunches beneath our heels – mine ridiculously high, yours flat with a heavy tread suitable to the weather. You grip my waist. You convinced me to climb up here, looked around to check we were alone, and then gave me a leg up. I slipped – it happened so quickly that you could not save me – and my face nearly collided with the wing mirror. I yelped. My knees hit the ground, but the snow muffled the blow. You laughed and continued to help me up, your hands unsteady under the influence. Beer. New Year’s Eve. Hope.

By Emma Venables