Issue Two

Welcome to Issue Two of LossLit Magazine.

Editors’ Note

Welcome to Issue Two of LossLit Magazine. This is the first issue for which we operated an open submissions policy. We received a high number of submissions of impressively consistent high quality, and were pleased to see such inventive and diverse works, all taking their inspiration from the central idea of ‘loss’.

By Kit and Aki (Editors)

The Heart is a Clock

The evening I die, the moon is shining like an old-fashioned cola bottle top, squashed metal set deep in the endless purple nothing. The light reflects off the water and my lips taste of salt and garlic and ash; the grilled sardines we’d eaten overlooking the harbour still sitting a little too high in my old belly. I’m glad of the wine though.

By Liam Brown

Small World

Yesterday’s sand is under my fingernails and a fine yellow trail of it vibrates in the lining of my rucksack. It’s been so long since I’ve even seen a beach that I imagine I’m back home for a moment, toes licked by the eerie shallows on my walk to the mosque. But they’re just granules that have fallen off Mohammed’s ‘Back Home’ collage.

By Rachael Smart

Falling In & Out of Cabs

Caught by the safety net of blackness. Cheeky chappie. Salt of the earth. The Knowledge to get you home. Safe and sound. Sounds keep playing though. You remember the argument over which tube station was nearest. You went separate ways. There may have been a bar, music, a toilet, a moment of panic on the road. The panic stopped for you when the black door swung open. You could relax. Just how much you’ll never know.

By Clare Archibald

Mapping Us

LONDON:

I’m trying to lose us – the old us. I’m trying to lose us the only way I know how. My fingers scurry the landscapes of his flesh, looking for signposts that will lead me out of Regret.

By Sanya Semakula

The Light Abates

You’ve stood up too fast, you know that. But you’ve taken a moment to steady yourself and gather your thoughts. You’re 80, you’re in the bedroom. You look around and say, “This is a dead man’s room.”

By Sean Preston

Hollywood Chicken

Happens to me quite a bit. People think they know me. Perhaps they do. I wouldn’t know. I’m not a people person. I’m not what you call sociable. I’m happy with my own company, listening to my own thoughts. Not everyone is like me. Hardly anyone is like me. But still they think they know me. I’ve got one of those faces.

By Stephen Hargadon

The valley of the infinite

His dream of here _ the park and the bay and the bridge _ had been animated by a simple koan that, to his shallow ears, promised a bright release.

‘The valley of the infinite’

By Rishi Dastidar

Resurrections

I could sense it, your happiness. It made me drift away, and I told myself that was as it should be. I closed my eyes and let your memories fade out like dreams. And all the while, my thoughts were divided between stasis and why it is that some people stand out in a sea of blurred images, sharp and visible only to a few others, emotional markers that show us that some of our decisions are the right ones.

By Tomoé Hill

Gold

Zeinab, a veteran Pronto! driver, snorted derisively. She crumpled the advisory into a ball and, making sure her co-workers were watching, pitched it, baseball-style, into the bin. A few people clapped.

By Penny Schenk

Split Ends

Hangover
  Cattle grid
Gravel ellipsis

By Andrew Blair