i don’t like drinking with people because of how i act when i get drunk and i worry about how i affect people a lot | i mean | i’ll still drink a lot | but i may become very quiet | etc
I’m a drinker | it annoys people | I talk too much and get very bossy | it might be a Napoleon thing I am very short
A relationship subplot
By Blake Butler, Nicolle Elizabeth & The Life Aquatic.
I’m not entirely sure this isn’t the first time he’s written a “I hate Los Campesinos!, me, look, look, me” piece because I have vague memories of Gareth claiming he knew his band had made it when Wells slagged them off. Well done, Steven. Have a biscuit. Christ, half this forum hates Los Campesinos!, it’s hardly revolutionary thought. He’s the only man in Britain who believes liking Girls Aloud constitutes a counter-cultural act.
By Steven Wells.
Six years have passed and Candy is still pissed that LeRoy Felt didn’t get THE CHAIR. She wants to see that retard fry. She wants sparks. She wants all the lights in the county dimming from the strain on the electrical grid. She paid her ticket in grief and now she just wants to see her damn show so she can finally go home to Shakespeare, MS and live the life of peace and beauty to which she is entitled. But LeRoy Felt got off with life in the state penitentiary for the man he’d killed. Her man. So after the trial Candy visited once a month just to look at LeRoy Felt, just to sit on the other side of the dirty glass and stare holes in him and let it be known that out here in the world there is still one woman – one woman by God – who remembers LeRoy Felt is alive when he should be dead, dead, dead by all that is just and holy.
By Jeff Crook.
When I met Rollins he was a 16-year-old eighth grader, and I was a sixth grader and 10. I made the mistake to sit aside him on the school bus, and he thumped a fist to my forehead, and told me the seat was saved. A knot the size of a pecan rose where his fist landed. It ached when I breathed and I couldn’t sleep well for days. But the worst part was: I got detention for it. I went to the nurse’s office there at West Oso Junior High so I could ice the swell, and the nurse said it looked like I’d been slugged, and she wanted to know the name of the slugger. I wouldn’t tell her, so she set me outside the principal’s office beneath a mounted bear.
By Brian Allen Carr.
Conrad doesn’t say anything then stands up. He looks at Miracle for ten seconds and pulls his shorts down. Miracle looks at Conrad’s penis and is speechless. Conrad wobbles and says, “I like you because I think you’re a really beautiful person and, you know, we are having such a good time together.” Miracle says, “Wow” and Conrad stands motionless, wondering whether or not he should do something his penis. He touches his stomach and Miracle says, “Wow, I just really. I don’t know.” Miracle waits for Conrad to do something then says, “We’re sitting on the couch and you take your shorts off.” Conrad says, “Yeah, it’s just that I wanted to get comfortable” and Miracle thinks, “I don’t like the length of his pubic hair.”
By Adam Moorad.
On the night he found out about Mum’s affair, Dad began to feel less guilty about his own. He set things in motion without permission, sitting each of his three sons down on the barber’s chairs that very night and explaining the situation as he saw it. Mum gambled on him not having the courage to kick her out, saying she’d given up her life for him; she could have done great things; most women these days do. Did he really appreciate her so little that he’d end their marriage because she had spent a few afternoons in the arms of a kinder man? Well, yes. Though our house was too small to have missed any of their arguments, he argued his case to us as if we knew nothing; like we should have been covering our ears for the last six months out of respect.
An excerpt from Rodge Glass‘ new novel, Hope for Newborns.
Then you do a right down Great Western Road, and that’s where all the fun begins, that’s where the nerve centre of our operation stands, a brown-brick megalith on the shore of the Grand Union Canal. A confusion of automobiles around the entrance, buses pulling in and out, the controllers in their yellow vests with their walkie-talkies, making up orders, changing shifts, stopping for a natter about last night’s footie while the passengers grow restless, packed already onto the single-decker that has replaced the mighty Routemaster. This is where the real nutters live, mate. The bus drivers.
By Cathi Unsworth.
It is late, as it always seems to be these days. Murray rarely sees the sunlight - it left alongside obligations and responsibilities. He hasn’t shaved and now that he passes under the full beam of a street lamp, he notices his trousers are crusted with dirt and half-eaten food. He has the address written in scratchy biro on his hand and as he turns a corner he realises he must be getting near. Now he wanders down a back street and emerges somewhere in the middle of a row of terraced houses, pauses a moment to drain the last of a bottle and then tosses it into a hedge.
By Nick Garrard.
Maura orders another Guinness and tells me that she hasn’t been alone inside of a bar for seven years. “So what’s the occasion?” “My friend came to visit,” she says. “From New York. She’s from New York City.” “Yeah?” I’m not impressed. “Where is she now?” Maura shrugs. “She took off with some guy.” “Some friend.” She squints at me and starts laughing. Just like that. One minute she’s drowning and then the next minute she’s laughing at me. “What? Do I got shit hanging out of my nose or something?” She shakes her head and puts a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter. Then she leans in real close to me. “Why the hell are there sparkles all over your face?” she says.
An excerpt from Olivia Kate Cerrone’s unfinished novel, Debased.
I peer into the toilet. There is no water. The smooth off-white bowl drops away to a star-speckled galaxy, and in the centre of the unimaginable millions of miles of emptiness is a small pink duck. Not a real one, obviously. A cartoon character representation of one. ‘You’re a duck,’ I say. ‘No, I’m a being of vast power.’ ‘You look a lot like a duck.’ ‘I’m being kind on your eyes. If I showed you the real me, it would blind you instantly.’ ‘Yeah, well, I can manage that too if I forget to put my make-up on.’ I eyeball him. ‘So what’s up, duck?’ ‘Tanya,’ it booms, ‘your life is shit.’
By Aliya Whiteley.
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