Fiction

There is a leper with a fat brown face who sits begging for change on the pedestrian flyover that leads to Jardine House, but blacker than his pock-marked stumps, is the heart of the mainland lady who stands on the corner of O’Brien Road in Wanchai, offering with a leer and a wink, “Young girls, young girls.” In truth, a man would soon discover, the girls are not that young, for if he showed the slightest interest in pausing a moment too long, a diminutive female of uncertain middle age might beckon from the shadows of a side street, her superficial smile betraying imperfect teeth and improper motives.

By Nelson L. Eshleman.

Retching, I struggled in the slime, not knowing where I was going or how I had arrived. Mensforth’s voice droned through the hospital, The game isn’t over till the whistle, play up, play up, play the game, it’s not the winning that matters, old chap, it’s the taking part, British spirit, what, remember who you are, you’re an Englishman, England’s whitest, England’s finest, an Englishman is the finest fellow in the world.

By Andrew McIntyre.

Well that’s settled. And good. I’m glad to see a couple ready to engage in dialogue. Too many couples these days run off the handle with conspiracy theories before they have all the facts and before they engage each other in meaningful, well-thought dialogue.

By Glenn Fisher.

The rattling had ceased and without questioning it Lulu and Sherm took the opportunity to split the bottle between two large plastic cups. They each downed their glasses in one. Out of the corner of her eye Lulu glanced at the clock. The big hand was on the six and the little hand was above the nine and Lulu involuntarily gagged on the last bit of wine and wanted to cry. But the banging had started up again.

By Nina-Marie Gardner.

I sit by the Thames, trying to write my suicide notes. They started off reasonably long (Dear Mum, I’m sorry I never became the great artist I promised you I was going to be, but I’ve realised now that I am not able to manipulate life in the way I once thought possible and that sometimes one just has to wave the white flag and give in…) but gradually became shorter until they verged on the minimalist (Archimedes — see you in hell, Adders). An hour later, I’m exhausted, so exhausted I wonder if I have any energy left to die.

Read Sam Mills‘ ‘Joy of Suicide’.

It seems like it’s gonna be one of those nights as I watch the parade of hookers and johns from my vantage point. Stacks and Rubi are there, China is gone, and a newcomer I call Crooked Legs is working the corner. Crooked Legs hasn’t had much luck so far, but I have confidence in her. There are nights when anything can happen; wild, hot nights when uptown folks maunder through the grid in search of adventure, and end up with eventual regrets. Tonight, however, is cold, and so are the clientele.

By Andrew Minh.

As the barman poured the drink, Mr Ahmed caught his reflection in the mirror behind the different shaped bottles. A sudden panic grabbed at his throat. The brown-skinned old man looking back at him had no place there. He would gulp down the juice and leave. He paid and the barman resumed his conversation with two men sitting on high stools. The door flung open…

By Asim Rizki.

I felt a pleasant warmth spread throughout my body. It was like being injected with treacle and everything slowed down and took on the agreeable hue of the most beautiful sunset you’ve seen. Or sun-rise. Either/or.

By Ben Myers.

Just thinking about what he must’ve done to her to inspire her to write this drivel made me fantastically jealous. I was tempted to call the number just to tell her that she had better erase whatever masturbatory fantasies she was harboring because he signed them over to me, but I resisted doing that. Let her remember whatever she wants to, I figured, it’ll be worse to never relive it.

An extract from Backpacker New York, Seoul, Phnom Penh, Sapporo, Hong Kong, Vancouver, Mexico City, Maputto, Tokyo, Mon Amour, by Hillary Raphael.

By Steven Hall. The green room is green. Like the inside of a plant. Green green green. Walls, furniture, fish tanks, fish, pinball machines and carpets; everything in the green room of my house is exactly the same shade of — oh my god, you’re so meticulous Harrison — green. It’s the next day and I’m walking with Barry down the corridor towards it. “But I need to know something, give me something.” “No you don’t.” “No? No I don’t? How can you possibly think that, Harrison? How can it occur as a possibility in your head that I wouldn’t