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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.

In Homolovi, surrounded by storm clouds, faced with a hissing bull snake, I decided—like a fool—to pray to my father for guidance. The last time I’d prayed, my mother had lost her left foot to an alligator. I was seven and although my parents hadn’t raised me religious, I was aware of the concept of God. But because I lacked any spiritual guidance, I could only conceive of God on the same plane as Santa Claus: somebody you prayed to in order to receive the objects of your desire. Actually, I associated Jesus with Santa and I associated Jesus with God. I did not fear God; I wasn’t worried about going to Hell. My parents never invoked His name, at least not directly. My father, steadfast in his quaintness, opted in the few times he did exclaim anything for My word! or Oy!, and my mother didn’t exclaim at all; she’d hum until she got what she wanted, which was either a natural return to homeostasis or an apology. But no, that’s not right, I think, trying to ignore the lithe, black tongue of the bull snake, the darkening clouds of my lowest moment, because she did exclaim; Omp! she’d shout, yes, she’d Omp! in place of stomping because she found it difficult to stomp without a foot…

A short story by Caleb Berg.