June 15, 2009
Tonight I leave New York forever. I'm on Christopher street, the half litre of vodka decanted into my old jogging bottle and the plan is this – History day – I am history - I will stand beneath the triumphal Arch on which Duchamp in 1913 declared the Free Republic of Greenwich Village. I'll have a double in the bar on 11th where Dylan Thomas had his last. Another double in Café Wa on McDougal where Hendrix played and Ginsberg ranted. By Ewan Morrison.
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 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.
April 10, 2009
In the morning – after her shower and dressing the boys, but before breakfast – she goes back into the bedroom and picks up her list. She'd finished it late in the night, while her husband slept as soundly as their children. She folds it in half, then halves it again and she slips it into the pocket of her jacket, the pocket where the lists go. In her car, after the boys have said goodbye and walked into the playground, she takes out the list and inspects it. By Nik Perring.
April 8, 2009
The first time was when he came out of the shower after shaving his head. He had three towels piled up – one to wipe any remaining hair from his skull, one to do the same to his face, neck and shoulders and the last to properly dry himself with. The first two were hand towels that had been in the bathroom for a couple of weeks and needed a wash anyway. He always did it like this. It might seem complicated but then again he was saving on the cost of a haircut. By Will Ashon.