Twenty20 Journal Summer 2012: Magical Realism

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Twenty20 Journal Magical Realism Summer 2012

All copyright Š original authors 2012 Photo credit: Š Eleanor Leonne Bennett


Editorial: Welcome to the Magical Realism issue of Twenty20. This issue has unfortunately been delayed due to a changeover in editorship at Twenty20. Therefore, I have put together this special formatted release so that all the poets included within do not miss out on the opportunity to see their work published and reach a wider audience it rightly commands and deserves. To write a poem or short story in twenty words or less is, perversely given the brevity considered, an immense challenge. I feel each of the ten writers has answered this call superbly, and responded well to the theme. I hope you enjoy them: small words but big meanings. Regards, Colin Dardis, guest editor.


"Illusion" by Shiriam Sivaramakrishnan

From the yellow horizon fell, a speck: becoming a plane.


"We finally meet" by Terry Easley

A scratch at the door, like a cloth polishing wood. "Hello," she said. "I'm the voice in your head.�


"Escape Route" by Eleanor Hooker

Dad set twelve ladders in the barren crusted earth. For his children. Our darkest ravens sky locked each top rung.


"Floss" by Sarah Marshall

I live with a ghost who leaves messages for me on the bathroom mirror. Get out, usually, but sometimes, floss.


"Offering" by Matthew Brennan

On her sixteenth birthday, the villagers left the king's firstborn outside the monster's cave, then returned home, watching their crops.


"Bus Fare" by Katherine Ewell

The panhandling angel asked me for change; "Heaven's far away," he said, "and I need enough for a bus fare."


“Stars� by Doug Hoekstra

We hiked to the highest peak in the park so she could put names to stars that no longer exist.


“Theatre� by James Patterson

Disaster struck the small seaside town of Sardodledom with a precision unmatched since the author last decided to inflict it.


“Dream” by James Meredith

I lay down beside my lover. A dream rose from her lips. I slept alone.


“Feathers� by Brendan McCormack

My father killed all the birds one day. We stopped playing, covered our feathers and learnt to speak.


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