April 24, 2009
Marion Bloom was standing in the middle of Clare Street, in the drizzle, watching them both. She was clearly unimpressed, and frowned, as she slit a steaming scone in two and plastered butter over its smoking pith. On glimpsing her, Stephen tried to make amends and appeal to her more merciful side. He held her steady-eyed gaze. “The heart is capable of great sacrifice. It is able to forgive and repair itself,” he said softly. “It is the same with the vagina,” said Marion Bloom, biting into the last piece of soft scone, hungrily. By Graham Bendel.
April 20, 2009
It was all so friggin simple, wasn’t it, back then. All us young shites, seven year olds running havoc around the estate, putting the craps up the old folks setting our crackers off behind them like that, driving our mams wild walking dogshit into the house, or letting off stinkbombs, not sure which smelled worse, but all the friggin same we were loved. Don’t you think? Or am I remembering it with a bit too much rose tint? By Martin Reed.
April 20, 2009
You mistake my head for a cantaloupe. Your mouth is speed metal against dry chalkboards. I dig your inner thighs out of my ears. I wear what’s left of you. By J. Bradley.
April 17, 2009
"There’s a real thrill in finding some home-made personally-put-together comic offering that does outclass the expensive, glossy but often very shallow output of the mainstream. I guess the musical equivalent would be discovering those rare obscure 45’s that you can’t believe aren’t more well known." Darran Anderson interviews Paul O'Connell.
April 15, 2009
"I was for a very long time, a big letter writer, a big postcard writer. After college, after I moved away from home, my grandfather and I wrote letters back and forth, and that was an important time in my life. Now I suppose it was after I stopped writing letters and postcards, that they took on a new form — the epistolary novel and the postcard life stories. Anyway, the thing I most love is the intimacy that is conveyed." Susan Tomaselli interviews Michael Kimball.
April 13, 2009
I don’t want to talk about bars, the people who go to bars the endless interesting events that don’t occur in bars when you’re actually in the bar but, rather, happen after you leave or years before you arrived. It’s a tired and trite subject, and I very much want you to like me. It’s a new country with new teeth, and I want that new teeth reflection on me before my amazing looks disappear, leaving me tear stained, and dimly poisoned, merely good looking. I want us to get along. Like coal miners in depleted air. By Zachary Lipez.
April 13, 2009
Gigi's mother, for the most part, is not like other mother's. She has respected the fact that Gigi's room belongs to her and so does not creep around like her friends' mothers' do in their rooms. Gigi does not smoke cigarettes. She is not hiding condoms, or birth control pills. She does not hoard magazines with bare chested boys who look sullen, but lovely, nonetheless. No, Gigi does none of those things. Gigi hides piss soaked sheets, dried stiff, balled up under her bed until she has the house to herself and she can wash them. Her small bedroom sometimes smells like ammonia. Sometimes like maple syrup. Gigi thinks the smell has come to "define her." By Michelle Reale.