Dog day

It’s my sad duty to inform y’all that this week’s story is the final story for Dog versus Sandwich.

Changes in my personal circumstances, and an increasing squeeze on my time have meant I’ve had to make some tough decisions, and the administrative side of maintaining a weekly website has become more and more difficult to keep up with over the last couple of months. After some internal debate, I made the decision that I would rather close the magazine than put out a product I couldn’t give the attention it needs or deserves.

Small press publishing exists in a constant cycle of birth, death and rebirth. Magazines and webzines come along, survive as best they can, and then die, to be replaced by new projects and bright-eyed, naive new editors. Some may see cause for dismay in this constant entropy, but I see it as a sign of hope. Change is what keeps the small press vibrant, dynamic, and saves it from stagnation.

When I began DvS, I decided to give it a month or two to assess whether there was enough interest to make it worth continuing. The fact that I’ve kept it going for ten months is testament to the enthusiasm of those authors, readers and reviewers who recognised something in the project that they identified with, and who took it into their hearts. Weirdos:-) I’m proud to say it was never possible, even for a second, to think of DvS as “my” project. It has always felt like the product of a very strange, shifting gestalt. I’ve been privileged to connect with a lot of intelligent and talented people, who happen to share my slightly demented aesthetic. I’m grateful to all of you.

DvS may return in some other form, down the track. Or it may not. Whatever the case, I’m immensely proud fo the pieces I’ve published here. I’ve loved them all, I had a lot of fun publishing them, and I hope you all had some fun along the way, too.





I discovered this story next to my inner peace. It was printed on tattered parchment, with a stamp pad next to it, and a group of seven sleepy behemoths had been taking it in turns to stamp words onto it, mixing into the story until it formed a potpourri of mischance and happy accidents. It took me nine years to track down its author, who declared the behemoths had stamped it just as she would have written it, herself. But that they would be receiving none of the royalties.

Fair enough, I guess.







Samantha Henderson





3/7 – 10421 mi 12.5 g.

3/14 – 10706 mi 11 g.

3/30 – 10945 mi 12.5 g.


God help me. Its tongue is just like a parrot’s, like a huge, scaly black worm. It’s rubbing it all over the passenger window like it’s trying to taste me. Continue Reading »

This week’s story is something I think we’ve all been through, no? I remember losing my hands in the dumb-waiter chute of an upmarket establishment in the nineteen-forties after one too many secretive schnapps when Mister Chesterton was following us. Needles to say there was much pianissimo and very little mezzoforte until a fortunate dog unearthed them while sicking up a nerf ball. And the rest, as they say, is history.




The Day My Hands Fell Off


T.J. McIntyre






Because they were unused, because they had remained idle beyond the allotted time, because my chubby fingers had long since grown useless, my hands fell off. The Department of Utility came along behind me and swept them up in a street-sweeper. Continue Reading »

Turnaround Times

Also, a note on turnaround times.

Real life has intruded a little in the last few months and our current turnaround time is more like two or three months rather than one month.

I’m aiming to get this down to a faster time soon.

This week’s story

Forgot to blog before going to Conflux that there’d be no story this Monday. It’s kind of redundant, now that Monday has been and gone, but just so it’s official: there will be no story yesterday.

Normality of sorts will resume.

Normally, gentle reader, as you know, I am loathe to publish stories with talking animals in them. However this week I have made an exception for you, that you might delight in the philosophical musings below.




A Fish and a Balloon

Diane Height




This is a fable-because it can’t really be anything else-and it starts in a rocky place that neither a fish nor a balloon should be happy with. Rocky and hot and without witnesses, but it’s where this story happens, so our fish and a balloon have to put up with it, as we all have to put up with places we don’t like. Continue Reading »

What can one say on a glorious Spring morning like this? With birds singing and possums dancing a merry jig in the courtyard. What indeed, other than, watch out for the bad bus!!!




Lord of the Road-Kill.

By M.J. Salmon


Bad Bus boils down the asphalt, looking for the all-American Scream Queen and a game of football. He sucks in kittens and birthday surprises, but exhales shadows and emphysema. He’s made of Hell-metal and devilry and that’s unbreakable stuff, in these parts. You can’t out-run Bad Bus either; he’s got that angle covered. Continue Reading »