Monologue of the gravedigger by Clare Azzopardi
So I tell Ġiljan once, I say, there’s no way I’m putting on a tie, not in this heat, it would kill me dammit, but he says no fucking way Ġuż, you’ve just got to, go on now and get dressed, and change that jacket, that one’s for down below, up here, you wear something different… Jesus Christ, how many times must I tell you, we’ve got de Piro de Celis lined up for today, an eminence he was, know what I’m saying? Couldn’t care less, to tell the truth.
Four days by Immanuel Mifsud
After a while, she said she wanted to do it again and in reply, I reached out towards the clock on the bedside table.
– What time is it?
– Twenty to four.
– Still early, so. Let’s do it again.
And she climbed on top of me before I could protest that I was tired and didn’t feel like it anymore. At twenty to four, I like to be asleep, especially if I’ve got things to do the next day.
Mostar by Adrian Grima
Although so much brutality has happened,
Rafel prepares the ground for new engagements:
the two sides facing off across the way.
A presage of the din that means disaster,
of swords piercing the breath of those they slay.
- ESSAY: ‘Malta’s Jonah Complex’ by Antoine Cassar
- ESSAY: Incongruity and Scale by Ivan Callus
- ESSAY: Writing on the Edge by Raphael Vella
- ESSAY: Mute Stage by Simone Spiteri
- ESSAY: On approaching a language from outside its crèche by Walid Nabhan
- PROSE: Monologue of the gravedigger by Clare Azzopardi
- PROSE: Four days by Immanuel Mifsud
- PROSE: I want to call out to Samirah by Pierre J. Mejlak
- PROSE: Gerita by Trevor Żahra
- PROSE: Everything is not by Walid Nabhan
- POETRY: Mario Azzopardi
- POETRY: Norbert Bugeja
- POETRY: Antoine Cassar
- POETRY: Joe Friggieri
- POETRY: Simone Galea
- POETRY: Adrian Grima
- POETRY: Maria Grech Ganado
- POETRY: Simone Inguanez
- POETRY: Nadia Mifsud
- POETRY: Albert Marshall