One-hundred and fifty years ago, a famous battle from a great war spilled blood on the fields behind my family’s home. Now, these long summer days, we chase away men wearing dark baseball caps and bulky headphones, metal detectors swaying wildly at their sides. Other days we crack off pistol-fire into the air and watch as they retreat to their little cars, great clouds of dust dispersing over the roads as they tear back to town.
By David Peak.
Just then he conceived a dare for himself. The proper way to put it looked cross-eyed back at him and winked. There it sat: the comic adjudicator from hell—the devil—with its fat gut and perfect whiskers and horns. Superintending pointless dares in Indian restaurants everywhere. Stewing after the pointless fallout. Utterly hysterical for more to come, for eternity. Harvey deliberated. He was just drunk enough on beer to give a wink back. He did so and then emptied the remainder of his drink with a gulp. “I dare myself to get a girl tonight. Or else go abstinent for a good solid pig’s lifetime.”
By Peter Clarke.
She was the kind if girl who wasn’t fussy where her shiraz came from, the kind a barge man wouldn’t touch with his pole. But he’d got to the point where he was so hungry for someone to touch him this was no longer important. He found her, not in the gutter but wavering on the edge of it, with thin legs perched on ridiculous heels that made her unsteady as a young bird. He preferred more flesh on a woman – even her laughter was the brittle kind, but better than the eternal silence of his apartment.
By Clare Kirwan.
There, there
The fool that you are, Robert
Is that druff on your shoulder?
It is not, you fiend
Oh, Meg, tarry a while
I will not, I cannot
Please, I’ll make an honest woman of you
The cheek of it, you don’t have it in you
My kisses say I do.
By Alan McCormick & Jonny Voss.
I met her in a cocktail bar, but she wasn’t working as a waitress. She was getting drunk like me at the counter, blabbing away to strangers, some of whom were queuing to order. We swooned this way and that, as if on the deck of a storm-swept ship; then she yelled in my ear. She stank of perfume and gin; and later, in her room, I wondered whether she’d splashed on the latter and drunk the former.
By Alex Sheal.
“For some reason I’ve started making the bed.” Luc said stroking the little, grey bristles poking out from his cheeks.
“I don’t know what it is. I’ve never made the bed before. I always thought it was a waste of time, and then suddenly, I can’t stand to see my bed unmade.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Marcel before taking the final sip of his coffee.
“Making the bed in morning. I never used to do it. Now I can’t help myself.”
“So what?” said Marcel rubbing his hands on his cream coloured corduroys.
“So nothing, I just thought it was interesting. When Marigelle was alive she couldn’t stand to see the bed unmade and I never did it. Not once in all the years we lived together.”
They both chuckled.
By Nathan Loceff.
‘Sweet choice,’ he applauds as she steps out the store.
‘Chairs,’ she says, and smiles. Lips glossy beneath the glossy visage of himself upon each of her eyes. ‘Which are you thinking of?’
‘You don’t like the look of these?’ He teases, as she stares up at the twin visage of herself upon each of his eyes.
‘Sure I do.’
And they went to the movies together.
And they never took off their shades.
By Jeeshan Gazi.
Pass the bottle old girl.
Mine, all mine.
Come on, give us a slug, woman, I’m spitting up fur balls.
I was here first.
Share and share alike, why don’t ya?
No, it’s all mine, loser.
Who’s you calling loser?
You, you fuck beard.
What if I say please?
You’d be a fucking loser who says please.
By Alan McCormick & Jonny Voss.
She cups his lung and he squeezes out a breath, dragging, scraping, draining a way through and out. He coughs. Grey clouds. Yellow moon. Sulphur pools. The rooster carries his collarbone to hang in the sky. He inhales his last, bonfire, crackle and spit. An ashtray collects the ash. His smoke circles, his grey lips smile, and he’s ready to take his first step.
By Alan McCormick & Jonny Voss.
At a certain point, turning back becomes impossible. As nervous and forlorn as a child in the woods, your glory has greatly declined in recent years. The wicked and accursed bug of criticism bites down on your moderate to severe frown lines and nasolabial folds. At this moment, between the ages of 18 and 65, you must be conserving your strength to act – but doubts have invaded your waking moments and anxious dreams in a great tide of unrest. Unfortunately, there is little comfort to be had as you direct your gaze to the mirror.
By Louise Phillips.
Death of A Ladies' Man by Christiana Spens
Grey Cats by Adam Biles
Body Parts by Dylan Trigg
Par Avion Vol.1
On Snakes & Other Stories by Yrsa Daley-Ward
Varroa Destructor by Lee Rourke
The Edgier Waters: 5 Years of 3:AM Magazine
3:AM London, New York, Paris
