An Inelegant Game

A beautiful flash fiction story from Richard Ankers…

Richard M. Ankers - Storybook

Death was an inelegant solution to an elegant game, an imperfect answer to the most perfect of all solutions. Yet here, Death held no sway.   

Memories were never my forte. I remembered in fits and starts, never then till now, nor here to there. I recalled moments, or fragments of moments, nothing more, like a jigsaw turned upside down and with no means of reference to piece it back together. This was how the first conjunction occurred, grey on black, black on grey, always white in-between.

The small, white bird was not a creature of feathers and pumping blood, but of glazed porcelain with a copper beak. It sang, though, trilled its little metal heart out. It sang and sang and sang.

I put the bird in my pocket only to realise many years later, when next I checked, that it had a hole. I panicked then, something to…

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My Flash Fiction Story, Bridges, is Live at the Punk Noir Magazine


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The Tuareg is a painting by Bonifacio Sulprizio

My flash fiction story, Bridges, is live at the Punk Noir Magazine. Many thanks to the Editor, Stephen J. Golds.

Thank you for reading. 🙂

Light Beams


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My flash fiction story, Light Beams , is in the May Issue of The Bosphorus Review of Books. Many thanks to the Editor-in-Chief, Luke Frostic.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Thanks for reading! 🙂

Our cover this month is by our returning artist Dj Nio – Mammaliturki. find more of his work here and listen to his latest music here or here…

Rosse Buurt


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I remember my first time in Amsterdam, a magical city with dainty bridges over canals, and quaint buildings along it, whose tops symbolize various forms of architecture. Different gables, bell, neck-shaped and laddered, according to the fashion.

Our hotel was far from Rosse Buurt, so we walked and had dinner in an area close to the district. I never forget that name because it is a vivid memory of how things worked in that part of town. The restaurant had a good view of the Red Light District, comprising of houses whose windows displayed young women in their underwear. Once the curtains were drawn and the light faded, it meant they were busy. Other windows lit up and faded into darkness throughout the dinner. What a life, I thought, open, uninhibited.

Prostitution is the oldest profession in history. I remember seeing a sign in Ephesus, probably the oldest bit of advertising, stating, “If you go right, you’ll find your heart’s key,” pointing to a house of joy.

Men marry proper women who bear proper children, but some can’t stay away from the women of joy, can they, and perhaps have some illegitimate children. What’s the secret? The proper versus the improper? Perhaps they prefer the less inhibited? There are many answers to this question. I think it has to do with the alter ego and the rebellion against what’s proper.

Recently, I read that Rosse Buurt will be moved out of Amsterdam. Amsterdam will not be Amsterdam without Rosse Buurt. It will never be the same. With this on my mind, I listen to Jacques Brel.


The Second Time


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My flash fiction story, The Second Time, is in the March Issue of The Bosphorus Review of Books. Many thanks to the Editor-in-Chief, Luke Frostic.

Happy Spring! 🙂

Thank you for reading. 🙂

Image: Paul Delvaux (23 September 1897 – 20 July 1994) Winter Evening

A Festival of Flash 8 – Janis Freegard, Rob Walton, Iona Winter, Gloria Garfunkel & Şebnem E. Sanders


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I have a micro-fiction story on this page, along with some great writers. Enjoy! 😍 Many thanks to the editors Michelle Elvy and
Witi Ihimaera.

Love in the Time of COVID

You’ll never see unless you look by Janis Freegard

Your head sinks into the pillow, you pass through the tunnel where sometimes, briefly, voices speak words that don’t quite make sense, where there are shapes and patterns you only ever see in this state, then you’re through to the other world, the sleep world.

It’s different here. Life happens in fragments. Time means nothing. A friend can become a cat and then your cousin. You see someone you know but they are wearing a stranger’s face. Electrical appliances will not work. The dead were never dead.

Try to wake up inside this world. This way you can influence events. Flying is a good option for you. It may take a few tries. To start with, you might be hovering just above the ground, worrying about crashing down. Don’t. Don’t think about that. Concentrate on levitating above rooftops and trees. Get…

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The Hunter by Sebnem E. Sanders


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Many thanks to the Editor in Chief, Paul D. Brazill, for publishing my story, The Hunter at Punk noir Magazine.

Season’s Greetings and wishes for much health and prosperity in the New Year! 🙂

Punk Noir Magazine

The Hunter

Blanche stood before the cheval mirror and adjusted her fur hat. Tucking wayward curls inside the headpiece, she buttoned her fitted long coat, and picked up her gloves.

Fat snowflakes dancing like butterflies greeted her as she stepped into the street lined with terraced houses. She pulled up her collar, and glided over the soft mounds on the pavement. Warm lights pouring from windows and lamp posts illuminated the blanket of snow which muffled the sounds of traffic and footsteps. A postcard scene, as though time had stopped. Turning left at the bottom of the road, Blanche continued towards the High Street.

Loaded with bags, Christmas shoppers headed in all directions. Passengers stepped onto or off red, double-decker buses along the main street decorated with colourful lights. Children fascinated by displays, stuck their faces on the windows of the Toy Shop as their parents pulled them away while…

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Happy Birthday, Ripples on the Pond! Recap, December 8th, 2020.

Happy Birthday, Ripples on the Pond! Recap, December 8th, 2020.


Another year has passed and I still haven’t published my longer fiction… Sorry, I have been distracted for more than a year watching movies, series, human stories I love. Maybe I should attempt to write reviews on these, not as a critic, but as a spectator. Never mind, maybe I will, maybe I won’t, but I know it’s time to concentrate on my longer fiction and stop procrastinating …

Anyway, I’m updating the below post from a year ago, with a few new photos, some reviews, and links to the stories which appeared on online literary magazines, before and after Ripples on the Pond was published.

The below stories were first published at Sick Lit Magazine. Many thanks to the Editor in Chief, Kelly Fitzharris @kellycoody.

My Paper Memories / The Train

King of Hearts

Zero plus One

First published at Twisted Sister Literary Magazine

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Yes, I got Georgia on my Mind because it’s significant and the song plays in the background as the US election results painfully unfold. So slow, so unnerving, but we must bear, and the winner will be announced before the next century.

This is where we have arrived now, the most powerful nation on planet Earth cannot decide who is the winner, while the grapevine grows and spreads words of conspiracy… Stealing, winning, losing, suing, etc.

Amid a worldwide pandemic, human or otherwise caused, we are at a standstill, waiting, waiting as to how our fates will unfold.

Hegel says, “thesis, antithesis, and synthesis.” White, black, and grey. We are familiar with the whites and blacks, but who is in the grey area? Who will win? The blacks, whites or the greys? Everyone knows the blacks and the whites. No one knows the greys, made up of all they agree from the synthesis of the whites and blacks. A little bow to the left and some to the right, while making their own synthesis. Will this work? Probably not, because people would rather think in black and white, than try to understand the shades.

Sorry America, sorry the World. We need to learn more, but it will take ages…Meanwhile, Back on the Chain Gang ….