Hush-Hush has arrived

The epic editors and creatives at Synaesthesia Magazine continue to impress and surprise me (and I hope, you too). Take a large pot: (i.e.) the expansive World Wide Web. Add: brilliance, dedication, lines, letters, words, paint and pixels. Boil then let simmer for three to four months. Welcome Hush-Hush the July Issue. You can find my two flash-fiction pieces on pages 14 & 15 (work from my novelette, seeking representation).

Thank you to the editors, writers, artists  and overall creatives that make this happen and with more gusto each time.

Photo Credit to Synaesthesia Magazine

Photo Credit to Synaesthesia Magazine

The Heaven of Cannibals – New Short Story by Amber Koski

My latest. Thanks to STROGY and all of our readers!



Amber Koski

typewriter love

We’d sat at the same 4-way stop sign six times today. The floorboards of Andrew’s car were speckled with fluorescent green chippings from my bored picking, and the white-sky sucked the color out of my face as I looked back at myself in the side-mirror. It was hot but without any true sign of the sun, like I imagine it to be when you stand near the sun in outer space – so bright it’s all white, or in London where they say even the summer’s are grey – hot without the warm hues and blue skies.

If I lifted my leg away from the clingy leather seat again I was sure the seat would come up with it, pancaked to the back of my thigh. There’s nothing to do in Tupelo but sweat, and Andrew and I spent our days conditioning his 4-Runners…

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The Bohemyth: The July Issue

This marks my second publication with this fantastic UK based literary journal. You can read the wonderful work from all contributors here.


For a direct link to my story.


The quiet gets in

ImageIn the blank moments between tracks, when the wind doesn’t blow past my ear in its loud whirr way, when the potholes can’t fill the space, I think of her, her and her; those that didn’t last, never struck it right, swamp rather than oil as my Dad would say. My brain’s attempt at connecting the ever-present mundane days, the word our worlds coined for the silent pain felt in one’s own company: loneliness. These roads I’ve driven, squares from her door, to her garage, to the empty dust lot where I parked my car for three months and then four more off-and-on. My life’s place markers the romantic pins and the new routes I’ve plotted to avoid: her high loft view of the street, seeing her, and then her new love get into the same passenger seat I’d spent hours listening to the XX in, shared stale smoke kisses, my bare feet blocking her side mirror view. And when I see her in my rear view mirror I turn three blocks too soon, refuse to check her passenger seat. When I see a tiny frame (both bike and body) I slow, move left, give-way to the cyclist like she’d want me to, and when it’s not her I smile and imagine she’s moved far from these streets we used to ride. All my fails are stacked inside, vertebra-tall and so strong, the repetitive one-way blocks I’ve made then and now remind me of the choices, the giving and all the taking I did, now that I can’t be kind to loving anyone, but me.