SCARBOROUGH FAIR is currently hosting a Flash Fiction and Poetry Contest open to all University of Toronto Students. The strongest pieces will be selected by a panel of judges and be published by Scarborough Fair.
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Filtering by Category: 2014
by John Dias
The souvenir given to my mother in exchange for my father’s life is lashing out at my eyes, forcing them shut. This keepsake is a bit of an odd paradox: it’s a large steel crucifix, but it’s the central memento of my dear, late, Jewish dad.
Read Moreby Victoria Loder
We were making love beneath the moon when I turned to him and said, “I used to be a writer.” He smiled wanly at me, thick teeth set beneath thin lips. I watched his chest tremble with the quiver of laughter, but heard no sound.
Read Moreby Xing Jun Ng
I remember the first time we saw each other. We were five and eight, peering out from behind the giants of our parents. You were probably too young to remember, but I recall the way your wide eyes froze, gaze flying to the black-eyed susans in my mother’s prize-winning flower patch. I spun around to find a Migrant Hawker resting on my nose, and yelped as I flailed my arms. I heard you laugh, and when our eyes met, I laughed too, the beating of dragonfly wings in our hearts and heads.
Read Moreby John Dias
Dried blood covered my face like tribal war paint. Corpses littered the town streets, over and under the broken bricks that were once towers. Trails of shattered foundations were now scattered across the city like sorrowful pathways leading nowhere but down. Only one thing was certain: bombs would dig deeper pits and salt them with the dust that was once our bodies. The heights we once knew were sinking, dragging us to hell with them.
Read Moreby Rumaisa Khan
Somewhere at the back of the muggy room, a pencil flew and hit the back of Joseph Meyer’s neck. His head bolted up off his desk as he snapped into focus. He stared at the blurred chalkboard ahead of him, slowly looking around and gradually taking in the contents of his English classroom. Ms. Thomson glared at him piercingly as the sound of her pencil heels paced up and down the class.
Read Moreby Natasha Ramoutar
I don’t know why she always has to stick her nose in my business. She tells me I’m an addict, tells me I need to go to some weekly meeting nonsense.” Beatrice held the pipe carefully with one hand, fumbling with the lighter in the other. “I can control this!”
Read Moreby Natasha Ramoutar
"Mom, what’s this?” asked the child, her small fingers clasped around a jar.
The mother took it gently from her hands, carefully opening the lid. “Ah this,” she replied, a hint of nostalgia in her voice. “This, my dear, is stardust.”
Read Moreby Jacob Zolotenko
In retrospect, it is somewhat strange that we met each other through our two fake profiles on OKCupid, but it always makes a fun story for our fake grandchildren around Christmas time.
Read Moreby Patricia D'Sliva
In the first memory I have of my grandfather, I am six years old. I am sitting on a couch with gold-patterned cushions that mould around me, enveloping me in scratchy fabric. It is my first trip to India from our home in Bahrain so the cluttered unfamiliarity of my grandparents’ apartment terrifies me. I press myself further into the couch’s overstuffed warmth.
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