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Author Archives: Allison Lonsdale

About Allison Lonsdale

Allison Lonsdale was cursed to subsist on the flesh of angels, but she found a loophole and has been devouring serifs. When all the world's fonts have been stripped down to clean lines she will perish.

Last Drink Mechanical Bird Head

The coffee-house looks like a photograph, Pre-digital, a faded more-than-real. Espresso and two cigarettes: a meal.* Reflected in the window, I’m a half- Step out of synch with moving in the flesh. Barista croaks “two lattes”, bobs his head, His long beak hazed with steam, his eyes dark red. The tip jar fills with cogs … Continue reading »

Categories: Clockwork, Exercise, Poetry, Writing | Leave a comment


I awakened to the artificial voice from the grille overhead saying, “Next stop Ashtabula. Connections to the Great Withern Line and the Ember River.” The light outside was orange and the sun was the color of raw beef as the train pulled into the station. Continue reading »

Categories: Fiction, Flash, Locale exercise, Writing | Leave a comment

Fictive Dream: Disease

I had invited the personification of Disease to meet with me in my castle, which was partly in the physical realm and partly in a sort of dataspace. When she arrived, she looked like a woman in a robe of ragged lace, with long, tangled hair and solid white eyes.

Categories: Fiction, Writing | Tags: , | Leave a comment

Mrs. Antioch’s Shadow

Mrs. Antioch had never read Jung or any of his disciples, and remained quite innocent of any knowledge of the Shadow.

Categories: Fiction, Writing | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

Seven Imaginary Feasts by Lynette Dray

Posted with permission from Lynette Dray’s blog because it is so awesome I want the Weird Pudding members to read it.

The First Feast

The feast is held in a nautically-themed basement, somewhere in a distant and unedifying part of town. A reproduction of the last feast on the Titanic is served by a host of waiters in Pierre et Gilles sailor-boy costumes. As soon as the doors are closed, the noise of a tremendous rainstorm can be heard. A drip develops in the centre of the table. The first few courses are accompanied by the sounds of water trickling under the door. Continue reading »

Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Funeral Suppers

Of course you don’t remember Jeremy, my dear; you weren’t born yet, so you didn’t get any of him,

Categories: Fiction, Flash, Writing | Tags: , , | Leave a comment