1. Hurricane

   by Amy O'Neil

“Dammit, why don’t you talk?” He said, shaking me.

I took my penknife and carved another one of his bad words into the alder at the marsh. I swear I saw it weep.

The hurricane shattered windows and ripped apart the neighbour’s shed. That’s why I don’t talk.

See, Dad can summon the wind when he gets mad. The ground shudders. Words rattle in my chest then bunch into a fist.

I knew that tree was hurting.

I ran through the storm, threw my arms around its scarred trunk and begged to take every one of them words back.

2. Marilyn

by Olga Henning

She was late for her grandfather’s funeral. Marilyn could not find the strength in her young-teen body to rush. No sadness, no tears, just echoing void. Later, when speeches came, it was said how much he loved his granddaughter. There, Marilyn made a promise- to bury the truth. How he unbuttoned her blouse, slipped his cold cockled fingers down on pearl-white child's skin, and corners of his thin flaccid lips bubbled with saliva.

Slowly, the ringing void began to fill up with bitter swill of the curse, anger, and wrath for herself. That day she buried all, but her memories.

3. On the Verge

by Megan Anderson

Big stack of vinyl, very collectable. One stupidly large flat screen TV, worshipped beyond reason. Three longboards, one e-bike, a set of graphite golf clubs – all cosseted indoors (totally in the way), all fairly lame proxies for genuine character. One pathetic mid-life crisis dressed as an over-polished Indian Chieftan motorcycle. Maybe there’s a fresh scratch along its ridiculous handlebars. Gibson guitar, vintage; Clapton’s scrawl allegedly on the neck, 10 pairs of tired Y-fronts jammed in the hole. It’s scratched, too. Fifty quid the lot, negotiable. Questions? Can’t help. The owner’s at Lolita’s, presumably. I’m changing the locks.

4. The Slip

by Jan McEwan

Wrath is a lot like Love. Perhaps they’re the same. Can you even have one without the other?

And then there’s Lust. The deadly trio …

These were her thoughts as she watched Rolf, crimson-faced object of her ire, attempt to wriggle out of the Big Lie.

Rain misted down from a flinty sky, joining the soft-white spray from the mighty falls below. She glanced around. No-one. One push, and he was gone. She turned away, to fetch the police. 

A selfie, a slip …

She remembered the text from his jealous lover on her phone, and quickly deleted it. 

5. Mine

by Melanie Mulrooney

His face contorted with rage. Fists bunched, clenching emptiness.

They had no right to take this from him. No right!

The heat of anger bloomed. Red-hot proof crawled across his skin, an unbecoming blush.  He would not—could not—let this go.

Head tipped back, he released a howl of pure fury, visceral and high pitched.

Always thwarted. Voice unheard. Needs unmet.

His resentment boiled over, so thick it added weight to the air around them. He lashed out, blindly swinging.

Strong arms held him in a vice-like grip. A voice cooed, “Sorry darling. Cat food is not for babies.”

6. New Testament 

by Fhi Love

I’m staring at my daughter as she films the fight on her phone, then I search the ground for reason, unwilling to witness the spectacle that’s driving everyone forward in one movement; a shiver of sharks drawn to blood in water. I think how appropriate it is because of the red stench of iron as her father falls. The other man bellows his undiluted joy through his gash of a mouth, snot and spit on his forearms. I’ve told my daughter many times before; never raise your fists in anger, but she’s just like him and I worry about that.

The group chose ‘On the Verge’ as their favourite. Congratulations to Megan Anderson!