Beer and Bloomsday Short Fiction Contest

James Joyce by Freyja Zazu
James Joyce by Freyja Zazu

analogue magazine teamed up with Hoyne Brewing Co. for the inaugural Beer and Bloomsday Short Fiction Contest, celebrating beer and the works of James Joyce.

On the next few pages are the top three entries, as decided by a panel of judges, including Spoken Word poet Missie Peters, owner of Hoyne Brewing Co. Sean Hoyne, UVic Writing Department Chair David Leach, Literacy Victoria Chair Susan Reece, and Russell Books event coordinator Vanessa Herman.

Each submission had to be less than 200 words, must take place in a 24-hour period and reference a Hoyne beer. They also needed to include one of three chosen quotes from James Joyce’s Ulysses.

The five dollar entry fee was matched by Hoyne Brewing Co. and was donated to Literacy Victoria.

Entrants were invited to the James Joyce Bistro Bloomsday event June 16, where finalists read their entries for the crowd of Joyce enthusiasts.

Proceeds from that evening’s silent auction and beer sales were donated to Literacy Victoria. The first place winner received a festival pass to the Sunshine Coast Writers Festival.

Congratulations to the winners!


Dania Tomlinson


“So in the future, the sister of the past, I may see myself as I sit here now but by reflection from that which then I shall be.”
- James Joyce, Ulysses

Molly treads Pandora through powdery summer haze. 7pm. At precisely this time last night Leo stormed in on her and Helen cuddled on the couch. Thank God I thought you were with some guy. He gestured to the jeep in the driveway. Clotted hair at the nape of Helen’s neck the only evidence of what they were up to. Leo had been AWOL twenty days screwing his secretary. Spare some change? It’s for the bus. Spittled chin. Sometimes Molly pretends she is pushing a stroller. Baby Rudy’s face appears from the dark matter of a devil’s dream. Stillbirth. Still birth. Now she’s 10 weeks along and gotta wiz. Hasn’t told Leo because part of her thinks it’s somehow Helen’s. Finally Solstice. Can I help you? Bathroom key? Gratitude. The yogi said. Let it burst forth like sunbeams. She imagined Helios. We could leave, get off the grid. Helen’s eyes were two magnets. Let Leo down easy. He never looks at her except that one night at the Wolf Vine he squinted into his pilsner then up as if she were too bright and asked and she said yes a voltage through her body like fear yes I will yes.


LJ Van Krugel

Waiting for the 
Big Human Foot

“And Bloom letting on to be awfully deeply interested in nothing, a spiders web in the corner behind the barrel, and the citizen scowling after him and the old dog at his feet looking up to know who to bite and when.”

After the apocalypse, time to start over – from lemons, lemonade, from mash, dog biscuits that keep the fleas off, keep the fleas wanting water, not blood. Everyone’s thirsty. Even the dead and living dead are thirsty. Entre nous, everyone, Bloom, spider, citizen, dog, is waiting for the next thing to happen, for rain to fall, for the wolf vine to suck up the spit in its plant saucer and howl. Time to boot up. First there’s growling, the dog in the bottle, and later the choir, sound of animate everything fermenting, moving along from this to that, to the moon, the cheese, the man in the moon, real life on a taste stage, party in the mouth of the virtual universe. They’re all watching the spider, waiting for the big human foot, maybe Bloom’s, to squash that arachnid, for the drip/drop coming, the wet parts falling out of the big sky. Bloom, with his dry whistle, his infinite wisdom, his gratitude, his holy beatitudes, knows that thunder is not as loud as it sounds. The scowling citizen gets it. Even, especially, the dog read god backwards gets it. Bloom will gather the sweet rain in his boots and make beer.


Patrick Boyle


Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of Prince’s stores 
and bumped them up on the brewery float. On the brewery float bumped dullthudding barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out of Prince’s stores.

They thrive on deprivation. No jam on bread. No pubescent splurge on an arcade afternoon. With so much invested in the idea, most of the older guys don’t mind the punishing work ethic.

We prefer to start in the dark. Matter of fact, light gets in the way. This kinda gig ain’t for everybody. I s’pose w’ed be feather merchants if we coulda, but then that wouldn’t make us us.

They embrace every fateful happenstance. Each moment, swollen.

Without a thimble of precision, their hearts explode.

I shouldn’t tell you this soaf someone asks tell’m someone else told ya. This mornin’ we founda new way of figurin’ things out. Some new guy hadda thing onto his phone that told’m zactly where he was. He could walk around an-y-where…anywhere…anda blue dot showed’m where he was. He’d run anda blue dot would run too. Even iffy ran in place. We all tried at lunch. Unreal.

A man washes up, rolling one crevassed hand over the other in a sink, before heading home.

Today’s long. Anyways, free time only works if you steal it.