Issue One

Welcome to the inaugural issue of LossLit Magazine. Following a successful launch of the #LossLit collaborative writing project on Twitter in 2014, we’re delighted for the first time to bring together a collection of long-form creative works inspired by loss, by a host of talented and prize-winning writers across short story, poetry and essay-writing.

Saboteur Awards Shortlist: Please Vote for LossLit!

Excitingly, LossLit has been shortlisted for the Saboteur Awards 2015 in the category ‘Best Collaborative Work’!

 

By Kit and Aki (Editors)

Butterfly McQueen on Broadway

My brother and I go down to Alex’s health food store on Broadway. It’s the first health food store in Washington Heights. There’s a rope of bells on the door that jingles when you open the door.

By Linda Mannheim

Philip Marlowe’s Lament

et quot uides perisse perditum ducas.

fulsere quaodam candidi tibi soles

cum uentitabas quo puella ducebat

amata nobis quantum amabitur nulla.

By Michael C Schuller

Locked Doors

I found a photo in your top drawer,

now I understand what you kept it locked for.

Locked doors

between two people competing

By Steve Camden

A War

My head is the government, the seat of authority.
It makes speeches and press releases,
Says the right thing to all who enquire:
“I’ll be fine, I’m sure, in time.”

By Emma Jones

Let’s Call Him ‘G’

Commuter train, 5pm. A man, we’ll call him G, opens his mail. It’s all bank statements and bills. G stares quickly and indifferently at each one. They record nothing surprising.

Later he watches TV.

By M John Harrison

Museum Without a Gift Shop

The week before we moved into the haunted house, my wife’s granddad had a stroke. When his head hit the floor, his frail skull cracked like an eggshell. He was 96 years old. There was nothing that could be done, they said. They had to let him go.

By Gareth E Rees

The Puddle Poem

I’m lost in a new poem. You can tell I’m lost because you’ve seen me playing in the Facebook sandpit. Today out walking I saw humans doing activities, difficult things

By Salena Godden

Hair Fell

I took his hairbands. Rigid, they dented flesh around my wrist. Discarded to side-tables, caught between cushions. Products spread the shower.

By Chimene Suleyman

Stripped

Naked as late autumn branches, memories scattered upon
the pavements of London’s twisted streets, like blood
after a pub fight; dirtied and downtrodden.

By Chris Beschi

Rivers of Cloud

You would have loved the roar that erupted in the back of the truck when Stojan told us we’d arrived at the summit. Even though I couldn’t see it yet, I could sense the building. And I knew that ever since those guys from Sofia told us about it

By Ashley Stokes

Falling

‘1 .move from a higher to a lower level, typically rapidly and without control…’

“bombs could be seen falling from the planes”

By Anna Walsh

Fire Starter

Just this morning I was at work, drinking coffee with that powdered cream that has too many ingredients, when I smelled the unmistakable odor of singed hair—an odor that, if you’re familiar with it, you’re instantly able to place.

By Robert James Russell

Migrant and Vagrants

‘I’ve been cataloguing ornithological data, folders and boxes and filing cabinets: every dead bird washed up on Orkney beaches 1976-2012, the location of each arctic skua on the island of Hoy in 1982.

By Amy Liptrot

Miss Trust

‘Miss Trust is busy, breathing fear – looking over her shoulder into the mirror…’

(Audio)

By E. Amato