MIR Editor
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THE DANGER IS STILL PRESENT IN YOUR TIME, by Robyn Jefferson
Lauren thinks about this picture a lot. It’s hard not to; she sees it almost every Sunday. It’s framed on the wall in the Queens Head where her mum tends the bar, above a long-since-faded police appeal for information.
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Twy-Yice by Liz Churchill
The funny thing about the night I bump into her is that I’ve got some cracking power ballads going on in my head. Proper wind machine stuff. I’m in an eighties music video. I’m in a shoulder-padded dress.
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STITCHES, by Sarah Davy
Your voice carries through walls, travels along pipes, pierces wallpaper, drips from taps. Your smell is a film that rubs off every surface I touch, no matter how much I scrub and clean.
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THE WEATHER CHANGES HERE SO FAST, by Jack Petrubi
He’s awoken at dawn by snuffling on the blankets at the end of the bed. The room is dark, embers in the wood burner glowing iron red. But there’s no use lying there, not now. He can’t get back to sleep once he’s awake. Besides, there are things to do.
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ORANGES, by Jacob Parker
It’s Sunday morning. The days are longer now and today there is the first real heat of summer in the air. I’m shopping in a market in the suburbs of London. I’m in the market shopping and I’m standing in front of oranges
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CROCODILE SANCTUARY, by Deborah Nash
She wasn’t taking the escaped crocodile seriously, no one was. In the news reports, it was just one more mythical beast, not a razor-crunching reality.
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THE OTHERS, by Rosemary Johnston
“The swans on the river where we used to live have laid some eggs on a nest they made at the weir,” said Olive, who was waiting at the nursery door to collect her children, Nia and Mikey. The other mothers turned to look at Olive, but not in a good way.
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WARM BEERS AND SOGGY BURGERS, by Farah Ahamed
f you ever come looking for me, you’ll find me sitting in my car at the Kisementi car park, listening to Radio One. Kisementi is a shopping centre on Number 12 Bukoto Street, in Kololo, a suburb of Kampala.
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THE SUMMER QUEEN, by Cristina Ferrandez
Liz wipes a tankard dry, humming along with the fiddler and the singer in the corner. The tavern is only half full tonight, a crowd of beardless students daring each other to one more ale, and a few older men scattered about the place.
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GOOD VIBRATIONS, by Philip A. Suggars
Small-Hands leans towards you. You think, perhaps he was chosen to question you because he has a sympathetic face and his superiors have decided you will respond to sympathy.
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