Step into the enigmatic afterlife, embodied in the quaint yet haunting setting of a timeless pub. Litro Magazine’s gripping short story, ‘The Lock-In,’ unfolds within the walls of Cross Keys, ...
“It’s a cruel sort of intimacy, but it binds.” The sorrowful tale of a washed-up whale, and the ways community deals with change.
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“There was a lot of spite in our family.” A story of explosive grief and simmering tensions in a family who struggle to come together.
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“We were no longer young.” GC Perry sets the violent breakdown of a marriage in the warmth and magnificence of Tuscany's countryside.
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“My dad’s dead now. My mum says that he was a hero. He died in a senseless war.” Today’s Tuesday Tale shows the wide-reaching impact of PTSD.
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abecedarian twenty-six letters, each one a compact unit of communication, a twisted riddle, a maze of red tape from well-lit offices; the only means of containing my sorrow now ...
A daughter weighs her grief
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A couple’s weekend getaway takes an unexpected turn
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Property owners look to turn tragedy to profit
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A lonely girl wanders into the woods with rebirth on her mind
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Two siblings prepare for a difficult conversation with their mother.
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A sister contemplates how to keep a lethal pact with her siblings
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A loving gesture that lingers beyond death
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The last time I wrote, my uncle was dying.
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It is spring, and the cherry trees are flowering. It’s the wrong time of year for dying.
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When Dylan Brethour was 23, she moved into a funeral home. There, the very normalcy of death led her to contemplate how we approach the end of our lives.
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He came out of the cell calmly at eight in the morning with nothing to say. The captain had never seen anyone come out of a cell so calmly.
The other ...
One of the most resonating questions I was left pondering over was of representation. In many respects the contemplations of death, the associated images, the rituals and ceremonies built around ...
Pete leant on the washing machine, catching his breath, looking around. It was a big kitchen. Big and empty and incomplete, caught between one age and another, one owner and ...
Nan may as well have been dead. She was on the sofabed in the front room. Sprawled, but rigid. Her hands were claw-like, yellowed and scaly. The room was cloudy ...
