{"id":111429,"date":"2022-08-19T11:49:45","date_gmt":"2022-08-19T10:49:45","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/staging.3ammagazine.com\/?page_id=111429"},"modified":"2026-06-21T10:55:44","modified_gmt":"2026-06-21T09:55:44","slug":"3am-magazine-whatever-it-is-were-against-it","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/","title":{"rendered":"3:AM Magazine – Whatever It Is, We’re Against It"},"content":{"rendered":"\t\t
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Latest Features<\/h1>\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t
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\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\tSouth Side Stories\t\t\t<\/a>\n\t\t<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t
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The new kid Herman had this proud smile of rotting teeth. We were in the second grade and my teeth were crooked. I was embarrassed to smile. Herman\u2019s teeth were falling out of his head, but he didn\u2019t care what anyone thought. The teacher sat Herman next to me and he soon passed me a copy of Mad. I spent the next week reading it to pieces. We laughed at his collection of Garbage Pail Kids cards. We became friends with few questions asked. We traded numbers and started calling each other at home. He called Grandma\u2019s house and asked, \u201cWhat\u2019re you doing?\u201d I rarely had an answer that interested him. \u201cDo you have a TV?\u201d he asked. The basement had a TV, Uncle Val\u2019s old set. \u201cYeah,\u201d I told Herman, \u201cI got a TV.\u201d \u201cOkay,\u201d he said, \u201cnow go turn it on.\u201d I hopped up on the arm of the couch and hit the power button. \u201cOkay,\u201d I said, \u201cit\u2019s on.\u201d He told me to go to channel 99. \u201cChannel 99,\u201d I said, \u201cthat\u2019s gonna take forever.\u201d The TV in the basement didn\u2019t have a remote, so you had to smash buttons up or down. \u201cNot if you go backwards,\u201d Herman said. \u201cHuh,\u201d I said. \u201cYeah,\u201d Herman said. \u201cHit the down button like you\u2019re going to channel three, but keep going. My brother showed me this trick.\u201d I smashed the down button as quickly as I could. The channels flitted by. When I got to channel two and hit the button again, there it was: channel 99. Like magic. But the channel was dead. Grandma didn\u2019t pay for channel 99. It was all static, but there were figures moving in it like people dancing in a hard rain. \u201cYou get there yet?\u201d Herman asked. \u201cYeah,\u201d I said, \u201cI\u2019m there, but I can\u2019t see anything.\u201d \u201cTurn up the volume, but not too loud,\u201d he said, \u201cand put your ear to the speaker.\u201d I pressed the volume button, notching it up one bar at a time. I pressed my ear to the speaker and listened. A saxophone, women moaning. \u201cYou hear it?\u201d Herman asked. \u201cI hear it,\u201d I said. He giggled. \u201cWhat is it?\u201d I asked. There was a pause and all was mysterious and forbidden. Herman said, \u201cIt\u2019s sex.\u201d<\/p>\n

Short stories by Ed Komenda<\/b>.<\/p>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t

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\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\tZizek at the Cricket Club\t\t\t<\/a>\n\t\t<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t
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On Thursday we went down with some friends for a chicken burger and chips. At 8 o\u2019clock, they pick a name at random from the membership list and if you\u2019re in the club, you win a grand, so the place was chocka. We sat in the back room, where the old people gather to talk about Reform and I felt as I usually feel at the club, self-conscious and chippy. Then, waiting at the bar for a consolatory whisky, I saw it. At a table in the corner of the room, a white-haired woman sat on her own. In front of her, alongside a glass of bottled beer, there was a book face down on the table. Its cover was white and the name of the author clear: Zizek. I started. Stared, grinned, gormless. A reader? Reading Zizek? At the cricket club?<\/em> What were the chances?<\/p>\n

By Charlie Hill<\/strong>.<\/p>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t

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\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\tOff Grid\t\t\t<\/a>\n\t\t<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t
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It\u2019s a sky-blue day. Fern leaves spike as I wade in. Strands of grasses and stray ears of wheat weave. Nubs of rosehips bristle on hedges. From the thick nettles bunched around my knees, I could make soup. I could use dandelions even if the blackberries are frizzled after months of sunshine. Warm days slouch as we settle in, plant and sow. Next spring, Olly says, we\u2019ll reap the bounty. Then we\u2019ll eat like kings.<\/p>\n

A short story by Deirdre Shanahan<\/b>.<\/p>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t

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\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\tThe Hurrying Day\t\t\t<\/a>\n\t\t<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t
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The mirror says he\u2019ll do. More than do. He\u2019s made an effort though whether it\u2019s in the right way he can\u2019t tell. Too formal or not? On stage, years fell away and he knew he looked pretty good for his age. In real life he\u2019s revealed. He\u2019ll show he still cares. She\u2019ll see him as he really is. As he can be. It\u2019s not too late.<\/p>\n

He runs through the tangle of streets north of Oxford Circus but has to walk west for the church with the steeple. The place she mentioned. He\u2019s early but doesn\u2019t care. Once in his life he should be early. Which door? Smoky grey glass hides something, maybe people. Part of a hotel and at the main entrance a gathering of suited men and women in heels. He tries a door but it is locked, though a smaller one falls open at his pressure and he tips in.<\/p>\n

A short story by Deirdre Shanahan<\/b>.<\/p>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t

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\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\tIn Memoriam, Deirdre Shanahan\t\t\t<\/a>\n\t\t<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t
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Towards the end of August, I received the news that Deirdre Shanahan had passed away unexpectedly whilst abroad. Deirdre was a talented and dedicated writer of fiction\u2014short fiction in particular\u2014with an impressive track record as well as great promise. At the time of her death, Deirdre was confirming the edits on not one but two new stories intended for publication here at 3:AM Magazine<\/em>. With the blessing of Deirdre\u2019s family, I\u2019m grateful to be able to share these stories, even as I am saddened by the knowledge that they mark her final forays into fiction.<\/p>\n

An editorial note by Daniel Davis Wood<\/b>.<\/p>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t

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\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\tThe Annihilating Now: An Interview with Gerry Feehily\t\t\t<\/a>\n\t\t<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t
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I was in the Spice of Life, this once gothy (but no longer), punky pub at Cambridge Circus, London, waiting to meet some Irish goth punks I was in a band with. We were called the Fireworks Factory. This incredibly well-dressed man came up while I was having my pint and said, in a very strong French accent, \u201cExcuse me, I\u2019m the art director of Yohji Yamamoto in France. Would you be interested in doing our fashion show in a couple of weeks?\u201d
\nI said, \u201cAre you taking the piss, mate?\u201d
\nThree weeks later I was in Paris.
\nThey put me up in a four-star hotel, I did the show, went out to places like Le Palace, Les Bains Douches, the legendary nightclubs, and that same weekend I ended up with agents in Paris, London and Milan. I was supposed to go back to Dublin to continue studying English and philosophy. I wasn\u2019t a bad student at all, but I simply couldn\u2019t say no. So I never went back. Never finished the degree. I\u2019m a dropout, mate.<\/p>\n

Gerry Feehily<\/strong> interviewed by Andrew Gallix<\/strong>.<\/p>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t

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\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\tQuelque Chose de Tennessee\t\t\t<\/a>\n\t\t<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t
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Ian and V\u00e9ro are gonna get married one day. And then divorced later on, but they don\u2019t know that now. Maybe Ian knows about them getting married, or maybe he doesn\u2019t.<\/p>\n

They\u2019ve hitched to this town from Paris, where things hadn\u2019t gone well. Nowhere to stay after V\u00e9ro\u2019s cousin ran out of patience with them crashing at her tiny flat, and the beer so expensive you wouldn\u2019t believe it. More than in London, and Ian hadn\u2019t thought that was even possible. V\u00e9ro did warn him, though.<\/p>\n

Alright, fine, but this place is gonna be better. They can stretch their cash for longer, have a bit of a rest; maybe calm down on the drinking for a bit. V\u00e9ro laughs. You know they\u2019re famous for their vineyards here?<\/p>\n

A short story by Katy Derbyshire<\/b>.<\/p>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t

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\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\tSecond World\t\t\t<\/a>\n\t\t<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t
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\u201cYou know,\u201d he said, \u201cthere\u2019s a second world in which the Bartleby<\/em> novella doesn\u2019t exist.\u201d
\nA narrow beam of sunlight had found its way to Paul\u2019s pint and it reflected back up on the ceiling, a small golden spot quivering like a jellyfish.
\nNow, I knew Paul well enough to accept that, after a few beers, he\u2019d sometimes say things meant to provoke, things he himself only half-believed.
\n\u201cYou mean a second world as in a fictional world, right?\u201d I asked him.
\nHe leaned in, conspiratorially. \u201cThat\u2019s just the thing. I\u2019m very close to believing that second world\u2019s not a fictional world, but a real one that bleeds over into this world, sometimes.\u201d<\/p>\n

By Nicholas Rombes<\/strong>.<\/p>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t

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\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\tThanksgiving\t\t\t<\/a>\n\t\t<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t
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It was hard, living on a hillside in Los Feliz, in a rented house with walls of glass, not to imagine the mountains surrounding the city burning. As if in a nightmare of perpetual fire. Lurking within the benign appearance, the appearance even of beauty, the beauty itself was the fire to come. Or something like that.<\/p>\n

If she still wrote fiction, this would have been the start of the story.<\/p>\n

A short story by Catherine Gammon<\/b>.<\/p>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t

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\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\tTime Being\t\t\t<\/a>\n\t\t<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t
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It\u2019s by far the most shocking thing to happen on a London campus in decades. A lecturer shot dead \u2013 in apparent imitation of the Reeva Steenkamp case a few years before \u2013 through the door of a toilet stall in the Humanities building. The questions are myriad. Too many to answer in the short window the press affords the story before the customary slide into seasonal oblivion. The victim is Laura Cameron, Professor of Philosophy, and Esther\u2019s dear friend and colleague. A mother of two, and almost as renowned for her eccentric, bohemian style as for her books on metaethics and moral responsibility. With her heron\u2019s-nest hair, held high in an improbable construction, Laura was unmistakeable walking into a conference hall, or on TV. A public academic, and the youngest woman to be made professor at the University of London, Laura was brilliant, risky, unconventional. A force of nature, the newspapers predictably say. All the qualities, Esther reflects in the dark, time-arrested days of January that follow, that she lacks.<\/p>\n

Read the opening pages of Time Being<\/em>, the new novel by Jude Cook<\/strong>.<\/p>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t

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\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\tA Life Nobly Lived\t\t\t<\/a>\n\t\t<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t
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Paul, with his good Christian name, wanted to mark his white damask caparisons and liturgical sandals and his cloaks, particularly the one depicting the Tree of Jesse, with a bold and original monogram, one that would immediately and resoundingly promulgate his high and uncontaminated standing in the world to everyone with seeing eyes, and so the boy, whose name he could not be bothered to learn, was brought to him. It was the boy, the baker\u2019s son, who\u2019d designed Manuel\u2019s monogram. Where the boy might have learned this skill never crossed Paul\u2019s patrician mind. He was too enraged to hear others, especially Mechthild\u2014Mechthild with her circlet of verbena and those wildly wide-set, goat-blue eyes that drove him near mad\u2014praise Manuel\u2019s monogram. Manuel\u2019s nobility was not a hereditary condition. He had no longstanding coat of arms. He was merely a knight\u2014a knight!\u2014and Paul loathed him. He ordered that a peacock be skinned without plucking, roasted, and brought to table in its natural envelope. In its beak, a sponge soaked in spirits of wine was kindled, and Paul made his vow: Lo, though it be in defiance of the Peace and Truce of God, he would have Manuel beheaded. Yet before the sword smote the worm\u2019s head, Paul would see to it that Manuel looked upon his monogram and knew it to be the superior of the two.<\/p>\n

A short story by Young Rader<\/b>.<\/p>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t

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\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\tWonderful Things\t\t\t<\/a>\n\t\t<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t
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The Valley of Kings, 1922. Obstinate and impatient, Howard Carter and Lord Carnarvon descended with their excavation crew into darkness.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf they go down in that spirit, I give them six weeks to live,\u201d joked reporter Arthur Weigall.<\/p>\n

Carter\u2014the self-made man, the scrappy adventurer\u2014broke into the outer chamber, which released a plaintive gust. He clambered inside, the first soul in three thousand years to breathe that air. He paused before the sealed door which bore a foreboding inscription: You people who enter this tomb make evil against me, may snakes be against you in water and on land.<\/p>\n

An awed hush fell over the scene. By candlelight, Carter hacked a hole into the pitch-black tomb. As he reached his torch into the darkness, his eyes adjusting to the light, what he saw shook him to his core\u2014<\/p>\n

A short story (in variations) by Jonny Aldridge<\/b>.<\/p>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t

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