Browsing All Posts filed under »Fiction«


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.

Four Little Pieces

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.

Red Tips

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.

Deep Blue (Sea)

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.

The Worms

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.

Plans. Needs. Blues.

April 8, 2009


You have left the station and are trying to remember your way to the town centre. You are two hours early for the appointment with the psychiatrist who wants to discus the state of your child's mental health. You are trying to formulate a plan. The spring morning is sharp and bright. You stop in the middle of a wide road. It is not a safe place. You go to a café and buy a mocha. You wipe your mouth after each sip in case you retain a creamy moustache. You hold a paperback, scan the words but do not read them. By Sara Crowley.

The Drowned Man

March 30, 2009


At first, after Beth left, there was relief, like a tourniquet undone, then that standard aching loneliness, some subgenre of boredom, simultaneous with a refreshed horniness, no longer the horniness of a man trapped in a dead end thing but the horniness of a man outside any relationship and, also, the horniness of a man without any decent prospects, which circled back into a kind of self-pitying depression, which I numbed with drinking for a week or so, till all these indulgent emotions segued to a more practical concern with the literal emptiness of the apartment, Beth's departure having also been the exit for the couch and the kitchen table, the television and a whole ensemble of supporting-cast appliances – toaster, microwave, coffee machine, etc. By Spencer Dew.

The Zookeeper

March 27, 2009


The Zoo had been evacuated of people. The animals were left to starve. Lionesses were joining their mates in the eating of the cubs. The Zookeeper had known this was going to happen for a long time, well before the rumours started and the news reported. Long before the army moved in. Walking down the streets of the town during those days, people nodded hellos to the Zookeeper as they always had done. It caused a fizz and pop at the back of his tongue and a fire in his solar plexus. He began to chew through pack upon pack of antacids but only work helped douse the guilt. He carried on working for as long as he could. He wanted to find the creature he would save. He had room for just one. By Matthew David Scott.