& infatuation by Lucia Villegas

Heartbreak
& infatuation.

Two cyclical constants
in my former atmosphere.

He stared under the glow
of the starlights; my face,
my form, my eyes- all
objects under his gaze.

I thought soft lips would produce soft words.

I thought better was the same as
good.

Lucia Villegas is a student in Edinburgh who enjoys boxing, writing, and other creative pursuits. This is her first submission to a literary magazine. Follow her creative endeavours here!

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Clover & White publish short stories, flash fiction and poetry every Sunday. If you like what we do, share the love and let others know about us. Don’t forget to follow us on Instagram & Twitter, and join our Mailing list!

Have a short story, flash fiction or poem to submit? Awesome! We would love to hear from you. Visit our submissions page for all the details.

Bee by Leela Soma

Golden, striped beauty on a nectar filled bud
feasting as the summer rays warm the day,
but

                                                                                words that sting, rolls off the tongue in haste
                                                                                the recipient stung, in pain, shocked and reticent

the wound deep enough to scar the heart, a lesion
that rarely heals like grit in the soft lens of the
eye

                                                                                the future vision blurred. Friendship lost in mist
                                                                                of betrayal , that sweet words later never repair.

Leela Soma was born in Madras, India and now lives in Glasgow. Her poems and short stories have been published in a number of anthologies and publications. Author of ‘Twice Born’, ‘Bombay Baby’, and ‘Boxed In’, her work reflects her dual heritage. Tweet her at @glasgowlee and follow her blog.

Let’s stay in touch…

Clover & White publish short stories, flash fiction and poetry every Sunday. If you like what we do, share the love and let others know about us. Don’t forget to follow us on Instagram & Twitter, and join our Mailing list!

Have a short story, flash fiction or poem to submit? Awesome! We would love to hear from you. Visit our submissions page for all the details.

The Switch by Victor Nandi

There was a high-pitched shriek somewhere. Jack opened his eyes.
        The fading daylight filtered meekly through the dense canopy above. The ground felt moist and mushy.
        Jack rose to his feet, startled. Where was he? Trunks of tall trees soared skyward everywhere. How did he reach there? Jack tried to recall what happened. To his surprise, it was all a blur. He could remember nothing… nothing except his name.
        Jack fumbled inside his pockets and pulled out the cold round object he could feel. A compass! He peered at it under the dim light. The broken unmoving needle stared at him through the shattered glass. He tossed it away with a sigh.
        There was a distant howling somewhere. Night was approaching. He knew there was no time to deal with his confusion. He had to look for shelter first.
        Just then, there was a loud bang somewhere far away and in the next moment, a bullet whizzed past Jack’s left ear. He sank low to the ground. Something told him that they had picked his scent, but he could not recall who.
        There was another shot and a razing pellet tore through the bushes and hit the trunk of a tree a couple of feet above Jack’s head. Before he knew it, he had rolled over the ground and slipped behind a bush.
        It all seemed so familiar and yet beyond the grasp of his memory. Jack peered through the bushes, trying to spot the assailant. It was a sniper for sure. He scanned the surrounding for a potential vantage point. There were hundreds of tall trees hiding behind the partial darkness. The shooter could be anywhere.
        Suddenly, Jack spotted something in the distance. It was a jagged stony extension that raised skyward from the ground like an enormous human finger.
        That place!
        Jack looked at the unusual rock for a moment, and like a flash of lightning, it was all clear to him. The forest, the fading daylight, the broken compass, the gunshot… Jack knew the entire setup. He had seen it several times before. He even knew where the sniper was and he also knew how to take him out. Sitting in front of his gaming console, he had done it on so many occasions. Just that, this time he was at the other side of the screen.


Victor Nandi is a Senior Content Developer with an Indian Edtech Company. His stories have been published in Verdad magazine and Tiger Shark Magazine. He has also won a story competition organised by FirstNaukri, an online job portal.

Let’s stay in touch…

Clover & White publish short stories, flash fiction and poetry every Sunday. If you like what we do, share the love and let others know about us. Don’t forget to follow us on Instagram & Twitter, and join our Mailing list!

Have a short story, flash fiction or poem to submit? Awesome! We would love to hear from you. Visit our submissions page for all the details.

Smoke Signals by Samantha Dooey-Miles

Waiting on a Glasgow street corner, a solid frozen ache filling my fingers; I wonder where the hell Adam is. At this time on a Wednesday, he’s usually half-way to work. Unless it’s not Wednesday. The days are no longer the absolute entities they once were. I create a tunnel with my hands and blow fleeting heat into them; before checking my phone for confirmation of the date. It is Wednesday – yes! But also – no! If Adam’s not here, where is he?
        I run through his standard Wednesday schedule. He doesn’t leave his flat until half past nine in the morning, to do the ten until six shift at Sleazy’s. He’s in the bar all day, never even popping out to buy lunch or run an errand. Then I accompany him to his flat, where he stays all evening. When he’s settled in for the night, I go home, returning in time to receive my mother’s weekly call of distress. Of course, she doesn’t act upset, if she did I’d have no option but to hang up on her. Instead, she pretends to be very interested in my career.
        I open my notebook to verify last Wednesday was textbook, that nothing new occurred I’ve since forgotten about. Nope, Adam walked past this corner at exactly 9:41am. I find today’s entry and add the weight of another question to the pages – ‘what is different today?’ – before snapping it shut and putting it back in my bag. When mum asks what I’ve been doing at work, I’ll tell her about the reams of notes required on the classified project I’ve been assigned to. She’s been particularly pleased I’ve gained permission to collect data in the field. I get quite into the telling of it. So much so, I haven’t found space in the conversation to inform her the lab terminated my employment weeks ago.
        To keep the blood flowing to my fingers, I busy them with vaping. I take a draw, the thick smoke’s laden with the sweet scent of synthetic raspberries, and try to imagine an Adam-less reality. This shouldn’t be difficult, a few months ago I had no idea he existed, but it is. If he’s gone things won’t reset to the way they were before; I’ll know he’s out there.
        I give my head a subtle shake, my mind has whirred to the worst case scenario, when there’ll be a more logical, less dramatic reason for his absence. He’ll be; sick in bed, testing a new route to the pub, talking to a an old friend in the street, moving to another city, gravely injured, dead. Inhaling deeply, I hold onto the breath. Focusing I can taste my breath mixing with the vapour until there is none of me left. I try to push out thoughts of Adam motionless, his lips blue, the chance for us to be together lost.
        The longer I concentrate, l’m able to appreciate there’s a certain amusement to having dedicated all my waking hours to tracking Adam, and losing him anyway. A tug in my chest which threatens to be a cry but becomes laughter bubbles up. I suppress it but it escapes, forcing two plumes of smoke to shoot out of my nostrils. I am a dragon preparing to breathe fire. Taking my next draw, I metamorphosis back to a sad woman with a disgusting habit she can’t quit.
        Blinded by a fog of my own making, I waft it away to clear my vision, revealing a tall dark haired man approaching. Concerned I may be hallucinating what I want to see, rather than what is there, I allow myself to look longer than I usually permit to verify it is him. Adam. His tall lean frame encased in the black and red lumberjack jacket he wears whenever there’s a nip in the air. Once he’s a few feet in front, I follow. Despite his lateness he maintains his normal languid pace. I give him the chance to know I’m there, puffing smoke signals as I walk, but he doesn’t turn to see them.

Samantha Dooey-Miles is a Cannes Lion winning producer and director of short-form documentaries. Smoke Signals is taken from her novelette, ‘The Length of a Minute’. Follow her on twitter @mrsdooeymiles

Let’s stay in touch…

Clover & White publish short stories, flash fiction and poetry every Sunday. If you like what we do, share the love and let others know about us. Don’t forget to follow us on Instagram & Twitter, and join our Mailing list!

Have a short story, flash fiction or poem to submit? Awesome! We would love to hear from you. Visit our submissions page for all the details.

Three Poems by Jade Wallace

Old Salt

She called me once and we
met like a shipwreck.
The dark world was
hot and silver sweat
glittered on her lamp-lit
skin. I fell under a
spell of sleep just
before sunrise.
Loose-limbed, I
drowned in her

blankets and dreamt
of the greatness of
the sea. In the morning,
she lent me a book
and I left her, having
let her leave bruises
strewn across my body
and tattoo her teeth on
my hipbone. I ached for
days afterward. My ear

became a wound that
wouldn’t close for weeks.
Months later, my lungs
are clear, my skin has
been returned to a blank
and empty sail, though
my nakedness seems
irrelevant. Lying alone
at midnight, I am more
than an inch from death,

but I am less than a mile.
I try to fall in love with
other women, but they
mark no crossed
lines on my memory.
Her book is stowed now
beneath a loose wood
plank on my bedroom
floor. I am harbouring a
reason to see her again.

Sanctum

Twenty-somethings, lush with
absinthe, pitched green bottles from
the hillside into the lea. Splinters of
dry glass laid a chancy hallway in the
swept grass. There are more shards than
hours, so I compose the remnant wholes
into walls to mark the needled walk.
My knees bleed sigils in the doorway,
which is thinner than the sunlight that
slits the threshold on solstice.

Torrid

At dusk, sunlight wriggles through
holes in the walls and swims
like tadpoles across the floor.
Water whispers as it rises from
the lifeless flesh, and goes out to

meet the desert wind. Before I
leave, I take a pocketful of
parched fruit and bring it to
the old clay vase buried in
the ground behind the house.

By autumn, the liquor there
will be disorienting and sweet.
Mother will taste it and say,
as she always does, that it’s so good
it could get the moon drunk.

If the spirits can loosen her grip,
I might finally be able to bury
the five phalanges of my father’s hand
that I dried for her last year
next to the green grapes.

Jade Wallace‘s poetry, fiction, and essays have been published internationally, including in Honey & Lime Lit, Studies in Social Justice, and The Stockholm Review. Their most recent collaborative chapbook, under the moniker MA|DE, is Test Centre (ZED Press 2019). They are currently at work finishing their first book of poetry. Find more at jadewallace.ca; and on Twitter and Instagram.

Let’s stay in touch…

Clover & White publish short stories, flash fiction and poetry every Sunday. If you like what we do, share the love and let others know about us. Don’t forget to follow us on Instagram & Twitter, and join our Mailing list!

Have a short story, flash fiction or poem to submit? Awesome! We would love to hear from you. Visit our submissions page for all the details.