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First thing: you. That old void in your head. It’s winter. The sun is an itch in your eye. There’s construction, of course; the sound wakes you as the streaky slam of your loosely hinged door concurs with the recognition of some meathead from Staten Island bent grimacing over a jackhammer that shatters the sidewalk and with it any hope of civility for the day, or room for thought, normotension, tinnitus-free ears—no, this probably prejudiced Italian who likely shares Nonna’s basement with his wife is shuddering and quivering above the destruction of the little patch of land that has had more ground broken than anywhere in the world besides some nameless city block in Gaza—proving your conspiratorial landlord right, all building projects in the city are scams, snow jobs for the mafia or the liberal elite or whites—he—Greek—somehow considering himself exempt—colluding to ensure everyone under the table is getting theirs except you and him—

A short story by Charles Hawes.

REACTION # 1: THE SONG, SHITTY REFUGE, BY ABSOLUTE FUCKING COWARDS
Nervous exultation. A conviction bordering on mania that says this is reality and always has been, even if you couldn’t see it. A desire to do. More importantly, a feeling that things can be done. As I hit Avenue du Parc and crank up the volume, I feel a youthful sense of significance blooming in me like the spring that will not arrive for at least a few more weeks. I’m the subject of a song, a character in a book or a movie, and everything I do is charged with meaning—even these endless failures and humiliations.

A short story by Glyn Rebl.

Two years later, it was quite the surprise to see Dahlia Diamond’s ‘Single’ status update on Facebook, complete with Divorce Party photos. Champagne at the Bowery Hotel bar with her besties and high fives with smirking, handsome men. Digging further online, I found a mention on a minor gossip site: ‘Stylist-to- the-stars Dahlia Diamond divorces jewellery designer Hunter Hennequin, brother to fashion giant Nelson Hennequin, citing irreconcilable differences.’ In her own words: ‘We still love each other and shall remain the best of friends. We continue to support each other in our work. Hunter is a rare talent.’ I couldn’t fault her diplomacy, but ‘rare talent’ was a stretch when attributed to outrageously priced silver pendants of naked girls riding dolphins and wolves. Whether he outsourced it or not, Hunter’s metalwork wasn’t even up to par, and all his clients were celebrities Dahlia had styled. I could only imagine her regret in signing a prenup.

Read an exclusive extract from Diamond Life by Anna Maconochie.

1. Wear clothes.

a. Also:

i. Bullet-proof glasses.
ii. A PM2.5 filtration mask.
iii. Shoes suitable for riding your e-board and, if required, running.

2. When you reach the coordinates, tuck your e-board under your arm.

3. Look for a wall of thriving Pandorea Pandorana climbing the metal mesh we installed.

4. Brush away the native vine to find the elevator door with a faded staff only sign.

a. Resist the urge to assess the vine’s moisture levels or tend to it.

5. Once inside, enter the number sequence listed in the location file and the elevator should descend.

6. Walk down a long concrete corridor. The entrance to the bar is through an industrial fridge door. Wait for your date outside.

7. As your date approaches, visibly dab the sweat from your nose and have a captcha on your device ready.

a. The captcha must be so complicated that it is approaching abstract art.
b. Your date may have up to ten attempts.
c. They may be a decoy. Do not give them any identifying information until they have passed.

i. If they are not a decoy, they will feel reassured that you have taken such precautions.

A short story by Karina Ko.

Richard Varma, the illustrator, draftsman, and muralist, died of natural causes earlier this year in Wichita, Kansas. Varma is perhaps most notable for his collaborations with Sirin Volokhonsky, better known as Professor Metzinger, the children’s author whose bizarre public appearances often overshadowed the sad, whimsical lyricism of his work. They began their collaboration in the early 1960s. The whereabouts of Metzinger’s final manuscript were unknown to most for nearly a quarter of a century. A malevolent rumor persisted that it was destroyed along with its author in a Hungarian prison riot. Others buoyantly claimed that Metzinger had managed to smuggle it away via a sympathetic guard, moments before his death, like in a Hollywood melodrama. But Varma’s own passing has revealed a mundane, yet pleasant, truth. The manuscript for Quincy the Calvinist Turtle, Metzinger’s last known piece of writing, was sent to Varma a few weeks before Metzinger’s death.

A short story by Avee Chaudhuri.

He did a silly dance in a bar, a dance so silly that it had no regard for choreography, ego, or social order. At the afterparty he talked about civil religion, his gentle head at rest on the cushion of a sunken couch. Hours later, over the laps of their friends, their eyes met –hello– and a passage appeared leading to a light, empty plain. The silence of the place fell through them both with the weight of a sky. Woah! The air was cold, but the kind of cold that reminds you this is the real world and something indeed might happen. Gail had emerged from a private room of shock and all of this cannot be the case, this cannot be the case—to here. For Tom, it was the same. They sat face-to-face, eyes wide. There is no way to describe any of this because there is no way to describe any of this—that is the point of where they were. Gail and Tom still thought understanding and escape were the same thing and they had found it. Actually, mutual understanding is a trap or loop. Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself—my bad! That evening was followed up by a stream of inevitable years until Tom, for reasons that amount to self-preservation, went away.

A short story by Emily Featherman.