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jacquelinebTitle: Red by the River
Genre: Short story; erotic fiction
Summary: A walk along the river takes a surprising turn for Angie (who likes her red-headed boys).
Published in: Filament Magazine. Please see the website for a preview and to purchase a copy. Filament is a growing magazine so your support will be received gratefully.
Cover:
Credits: Photography, Sita Mae Edwards; Design, Susan Pugsley
Story illustrations by: Ana Laura Borowicz
200 word excerpt:
There were worse things in life than a bad mark for an art assignment, Angie knew, but she’d had it with her teachers’ and lecturers’ pretentious twaddle. She’d come to the art college to sketch things as they were, and now they were demanding ‘high concept’.
‘Give yourself over to the art,’ Angie muttered, imitating a lecturer whose pomposity had inspired only a sarcastic running commentary within her own head. ‘The art should give itself over to me.’
As she stomped her way up the riverbank, Angie caught sight of Flynn. She knew his name from her watercolour class, which was small but earnest, Angie the solitary cynic among them. He was one of the youngest, with red hair that burnt copper in the afternoon sun. Various unkind names came to mind – ginger, ranga (as they said back home in Australia), carrot top: all of them implied something ugly or alien.
He had a small easel in front of him and paintbox and brushes to one side. The canvas was untouched. He was reading intently, eyebrows furrowed. He looked up from his book as Angie approached and smiled recognition. His smile trusting and sincere, and it made her feel bold.
Genre: Short story; erotic fiction
Summary: A walk along the river takes a surprising turn for Angie (who likes her red-headed boys).
Published in: Filament Magazine. Please see the website for a preview and to purchase a copy. Filament is a growing magazine so your support will be received gratefully.
Cover:
Credits: Photography, Sita Mae Edwards; Design, Susan Pugsley
Story illustrations by: Ana Laura Borowicz
200 word excerpt:
There were worse things in life than a bad mark for an art assignment, Angie knew, but she’d had it with her teachers’ and lecturers’ pretentious twaddle. She’d come to the art college to sketch things as they were, and now they were demanding ‘high concept’.
‘Give yourself over to the art,’ Angie muttered, imitating a lecturer whose pomposity had inspired only a sarcastic running commentary within her own head. ‘The art should give itself over to me.’
As she stomped her way up the riverbank, Angie caught sight of Flynn. She knew his name from her watercolour class, which was small but earnest, Angie the solitary cynic among them. He was one of the youngest, with red hair that burnt copper in the afternoon sun. Various unkind names came to mind – ginger, ranga (as they said back home in Australia), carrot top: all of them implied something ugly or alien.
He had a small easel in front of him and paintbox and brushes to one side. The canvas was untouched. He was reading intently, eyebrows furrowed. He looked up from his book as Angie approached and smiled recognition. His smile trusting and sincere, and it made her feel bold.
