Fiction — iExile Literary Magazine — Poetry, Fiction, Translation

Writing·Dale Scherfling

Deadline

The desk belonged to Hendricks, but the janitor owned it now. He was face down on the green blotter, one arm stretched toward the telephone like he’d been trying to call the one person in this city who gave a...

Writing·Frank Diamond

The Ref

Donny Lewis awakes each morning and mutters a disappointed “Oh, man!” first thing because he’s still alive. Says it before his morning prayers. Maybe it is a prayer. Maybe “man” is The Man. “Won’t be long,” Donny consoles himself, as...

Writing·Junaid Shah Shabir

The Shawl Seller

Excerpt from my novel in progress, The Shawl Seller The Saffron Warriors, as the other team prided in calling themselves, had already arrived on the field. Their team was comprised entirely of boys from the Kongposh colony, the inhabitants of...

Writing·Marius Iliescu

MOTHER

Summer wasn’t there yet but that day the air smelled hot and sticky. The traffic was congested and my uncle’s van followed the cars in front squeezing its massive presence trough the last miles before the airport. The cabin was...

Writing·Marius Iliescu

DREAM ON

In Romania I grew up in one had no choice but to live inside; of himself that is. Freedom was just a word locked in the dictionary with no meaning on the streets. My grandfather did twenty years of political...

Writing·Marius Iliescu

CHILDHOOD

I was born an old soul, ready molded into this world but rarely allowed to be part of it. I was always in a fight, either forced to meet standards or rebel against rules I didn’t agree with. I don’t...

Writing·blaqwynter

Journey of The Heart

Susan looked out the window of the sleeper cabin room on the Via Rail train. Her aqua eyes took in the astonishing Ontario Autumn colors of the trees the further North she had gone. The 29 year old woman brushed...

Writing·Jaia Papitz

A town close to nowhere

From above everything seems close to nowhere. The steps, the dreams and hopes, the bus station or the bus itself seem to take us nowhere. The Globe itself seems to spin with a ferocious redundancy in a vicious cycle. *...

Writing·Bradley Hislop

Le faineant

Le faineant se leve au coucher du soleil, a l'heure ou les ombres s'etirent dans la rue, le visage pale, les cheveaux en desordre sur le front. Comme d'habitude, a la tombee de la nuit, il s'approche du miroir en...