Et Sequitur Magazine, stories
Issue 1 (May 2022)
By A.J. Cunder
A ghost once haunted my canvas. On a winter solstice, as the dying sun snuck through the crumbling window of the art gallery, a white silhouette appeared in my frame, translucent as though his artist had forgotten to finish his body. Perhaps he was a remnant, a memory lingering in the oils. He faced me, my arm frozen half through his chest, features inscrutable amid warm shades of amber and gold, cerulean sky folded down to embrace us...
Issue 2 (July 2022)
By Lindz McLeod
The bench in the gallery looks comfortable—padded with plush velvet—but the girl’s parents don’t approve of lingering, especially in places like this. The walls are a deep, comforting garnet, like being tucked inside your mother’s cheek, squirrel-close; like being blown, dandelion feather-light, on the hearty strength of your father’s yawn. The family examine each artwork for a similar period of time—frequently a question is asked and answered on both sides—before they move on at a relentless, glacial pace...
Issue 3 (September 2022)
An Ordinary Tale of Extraordinary Desire
By Kiersten Gonzalez
Gregory looks out the window of the cramped office to the forest. A mystery lingers in the mist rising from it. And the whisper of leaves…like spilled secrets. For years, he had walked in the little city below—on a lunch break, avoiding work—to gaze at the monastery on the hill. The colored glass glinting in the sunshine, the enchanting harmony wafting down…he’d nearly drop the sticky, glowing screen in his hand, as if the world contained in it ceased to exist.
Issue 4 (November 2022)
By Shih-Li Kow
Sofia falls asleep reading a book at the beach and her two-year-old daughter drowns in the sea. The beach is deserted, there’s no one to help, and she’s racing, wading, crashing towards Angie. She pumps Angie’s thin chest with half-remembered CPR, choking back panic, singing “Baby Shark” to time her compressions. Emergency numbers run through Sofia’s head—her husband’s, her sister’s, 999, her doctor’s—until she remembers the most important number of them all. She dials the hotline of her insurance company.
Issue 5 (January 2023)
By Andy Contari
Malachai could smell death. It wasn’t the stench of a rotting carcass, but rather like an autumn orchard when half the harvest falls and ferments. His parents never understood, all those years ago, when Malachai asked why their parakeet smelled like the mushy brown apples in their yard. His mother had shrugged and told Malachai the smell would go away eventually—nothing lasts forever, except God and apple trees, she’d always say. They thought, perhaps, Fergus had gotten into the trash, or perhaps Malachai had taken him outside to play where fallen apples gathered beneath their ancient tree with its limbs clawing the sky.
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