Issue Six

Welcome to Issue Six of LossLit Magazine.


Give Sorrow Words

The things I have seen. What went missing; what was lost, sometimes unaccountably. And once upon a time, I was not able to give sorrow words. Therefore, it held; I couldn’t cradle it, talk to it and say, ‘Hello thing, what can you teach me?’

But, you see, I learned.

By Anna Vaught

Pull me in

I lost my virginity to a Mark Rothko painting.

Afterwards, noticing the blood, it murmured, ‘I didn’t know.’

‘Why would you?’

‘Was it…’

I stared at the painting – giving it my full gaze, trying to fathom its multiple horizons, searching the flat canvas for the dimensions I had just encountered. Its question diminished.

By Melissa Fu

Variations on Girl with a Red Balloon

Close your eyes. What is the shape of your sadness, the color? How does it feel in your palm- can you trace it with your fingertips or is it invisible?
Look up. Imagine a heart-shaped balloon floating just beyond your outstretched fingertips. The balloon is the reddest of reds, the color of love and also blood. Imagine this red balloon tattooed on my 24-year-old bicep, smooth. Imagine this red balloon deflated, shriveled. 

By Tessa Torgeson

Written in Advance

Requesting gems of sugared ginger,

skin pricked with bruises, pale

and loose on her bones –


at some point, since we’re in March,

the month of her birthday and mine,

she penned a card for me

By Nathan Fidler

Mrs Fox

  1. the house


She yawns in the fog, stretching up to the sky.

A yellow dirt road runs between her and me.

Appearances are deceptive from where I stand:

she seems the gothic ruin of a gothic castle,

turrets, greenhouses, gargoyles,

the unreal air of prison, refuge, cloister.

By Marian Womack


Billy’s alarm went off. He fried an egg, picked the old sticky pineapple chunks from the pizza box, and took out the bins. It was an early summer morning, and in Billy’s garden a strange navy bird was locked in a fight with two seagulls for a scattering of old, grey chips.

By Vivienne Burgess

The Kulaks Of Chelsea

Monday had been a bad day. I had been asked to assist in the merchandising of the new store. I moved a lot of cheese. I worked with a complete disregard for my body, the way you work when you are beat. When you think fuck stopping; when you think there is nothing to be got or to lose. My shoes were coming to pieces. I lost my footing while lifting a wheel of Parmigiano-Reggiano. It was a 40 kgs and I pulled my hamstring. Instead of just feeling miserable I had a dumb limp too. Work is difficult, no it’s impossible, and I can’t shake off the desire to leg it and to blow Britain altogether, I am sure I’m not the only, I’m sure all things considered this feeling isn’t at all unique.

By Tadhg Muller

Some Kind Of Happiness

‘That damn tree blocks the light,’ he said. ‘It has to come down.’ She’d tried to convince him otherwise, reminding him how the tree had been there since they’d moved in, 40 years ago. ‘Gold crests nest in that tree,’ she’d said, ‘and squirrels. It’s not doing any harm.’ He dropped the net curtain and turned to her, ‘Not yet its not, but it will. It has to be fixed now, while there’s time.’

By Heidi James

Dust Covers and Margins

Watership Down

The stupid thing was, I can’t remember the last time I saw him. That bothered me for the longest time. Was it in the morning at breakfast, when he teased Ma about her terrible cooking; or when we couldn’t get him out of the bathroom, even when Da was banging on the door? Or was it later? Did he turn and look up at my window when he left? Did he pause and wave before vaulting over the gate? All I know is that he was there and then he wasn’t.

By  Jennie E. Owen

Sitting, Standing, Mending

Martha bought a pair of those things. What are they called? Tongs. Went to an antique store on the mainland and came back with silver tongs she polished up and started using for sugar. This meant she had to buy cubes.

By Alison Jean Lester


The ghosts are very slippery and wet, like silvery over-cooked spaghetti, surprising and disgusting in equal parts. Marnie can’t seem to stop coming across them: two in her sock drawer; three hanging grimly from the shower curtain; a very small, greyish ghost that curls up next to the milk in the fridge; one big one that keeps hogging the remote control.

By Catherine Mitchell

And I was filled with such delight

There were days when life roared at us, we drank and sang
thinking there would be time enough, but fuck April—
it’s crueller to be alone in September, when leaves drop
with violence upon violence. I remember you and I and the evening
lying down before us, swept up by futures in which we had no future. 

By Catherine Edmunds