Tag: short story

Flotsam by E. A. Fowler (Lucent Dreaming Issue 4)

The first thing I found was the ring. It was a sultry, oppressive day in late August, and I was hollowed out by pain. I had taken a slow walk down to the beach, in hope of finding a breeze to dispel the worst of the heat, but even here the air was as dense as fog. Waves limped up

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The Hitchhiker’s Rest by Adele Winston (Lucent Dreaming Issue 4)

Callum forced the bulging suitcase into the boot of the car and said, “Did you have to pack so much stuff?” Chloe shrugged and got in the back seat. “Is he still going on?” Bethan whispered. “Yeah.” Chloe pulled off her red woolly hat and threw out her dark curls. “I could remind him about all the crap he’s packed.

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Like Dreams or Drainpipes by Jo Castle (Lucent Dreaming Issue 4)

Their journeys were two hours apiece, one made theirs from the north, the other the south. This was where their path intersected: a run-down second-hand shop on the east coast. It was a yellowed place facing the promenade, weathered at the edges where the salty breeze of the sea had whipped at it over all those years. It was a

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Madeleine Milligan in the Spotlight

Madeleine Milligan, whose short story ‘Baintsí’ is published in the fourth issue of Lucent Dreaming, is a 22-year-old musician, writer, and sock knitter from Essex, UK. She has spent the last three years of her Creative Writing degree buried in notebooks, crafting short stories inspired my music, dreams, and folklore. ‘Baintsí’ stemmed from a piece of choral music by Don

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The Rhythms of Anxiety by Ian Grosz (Lucent Dreaming Issue 4)

The man sat in the seat opposite and Henry focused on appearing entirely engrossed in his book. In fact, he was not enjoying the book: some dark Noir that made him feel vaguely anxious. “Going far?” the man asked. He was plump, this man, and sweating. Henry felt bad for noticing it. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Hmm?” he

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Sylvestris by Erus Arthurs (Lucent Dreaming Issue 4)

There should be a forest here, not one tree. The lone sentinel, the hilt of a dagger sheathed deep into the earth, stands tall, and watches me tread the vestigial tears of the many fallen giants. The springy mass of decaying pine needles resists my steps, squeaking under the agony of my weight – so much, so much, please stop,

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