Fiction | Radon Girls by Lauren Sarazen

I set my bag down at my feet, and looked back at the way I’d come, sweating, breathing hard. The path was narrow and shaped by switchbacks that snaked up the hill. It disappeared behind a bend adorned with a clump of morning glories that made the climb look bucolic and gentle. This was a lie. They hadn’t told me about the hills, the uneven quality of the roads. They’d told me to hire a cart to bring me up to the house, but I wasn’t in the habit of ordering carts. [...]

Interview | Amy Sackville

Back in March at the London Book Fair earlier this year, Vanessa Wheeler sat down with the author Amy Sackville to ask her about...

The Rat by Hannah Lowe

The landlady watches herself in the living room mirror, phone held to her ear. In the blurred morning light her face looks young again,...

Fiction | Mr. Cahill by William Roberts

  The little party wandered slowly along the rows of the hillside garden, pausing in the warm afternoon Northern California sun to examine one vegetable...

Fiction | An Actor in the Wings: Notes (1980 – 2009)...

Charles I could see him from beside the door. He was surrounded by men in suits, pointing at the ceiling, looking at their drinks or...

Fiction | Exposition by Nathalie Léger tr. Amanda DeMarco

She enters. She is roused by anger and reproach. She bursts onto the right of the image as if it were a backdrop masked with curtains. One hand clutches a knife against her waist, which gleams obliquely across her belly. Her face is cold, her mouth thin, lips tight, eyebrows knit, her gaze is clear and hard, her hair is slicked into two little severely parted plaits. The knife, whose handle disappears into her balled fist, vibrates at the very center, nearly absent from it [...]

Fiction | We Walk to Dissect by Laura Davis

There are bulls everywhere, a mass of black parading around the fence. The grass is yellower where their feet trample, the farmland is a...

Fiction | Quiet Mountain by Sally Jubb

They got on at Vico Equense. The carriage was almost full, but the two of them managed to squeeze into a seat diagonally opposite,...

Fiction | Winter by Philip Womack

One Wednesday evening, on the stone steps outside an umbrella shop somewhere near Tottenham Court Road, Sam encountered Silvestra de Winter in person for the first, and last, time. Rain droplets spattered down the back of his neck. The umbrellas, lining the window like carcasses in a butcher’s shop, were striped in pinks, greens, and oranges. Some, in what was evidently thought a rather witty touch, had carved animal heads. One duck-headed umbrella looked like [...]

Extract | Mnemic Symbols by Andrew Hodgson

  The following is an extract from Andrew Hodgson's novel Mnemic Symbols (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2019). For more information, visit Dostoyevsky Wannabe. Andrew Hodgson Mnemic Symbols Two, ‘As I’ve told...

The Soviet Prom by Neil Herrington

  Wednesday, 21 August 1968   The moment you and Slava enter the dining room, he throws himself on the first person he sees, kisses both of...

Fiction | The Root of it All by Charlotte Newman

  Pavements slick from rain and a market at night, risen dripping from the oily roads like a brand new continent. Brunch alongside nails alongside...

Fiction | Blue Nude by Charlotte Newman

It was ironic, she thought. Her first shift at the museum was understaffed, it was just the two of them in ceramics. He was dark-lashed, very slight – given more to edges than the centre of things [...]

Fiction | The Prisoner by Tammye Huf

Tammye Huf The Prisoner I set my alarm clock for midnight, because at one in the morning we wanted to slaughter.  It rang muffled, under my...

A Discrete Disclosure by Desmond King

Frank’s Englishness was all about him for he dressed in country wear:  tweed sports jackets, check shirts, Burberry rain macs, and a perpetual woollen...

Fiction | Mens Rea by Annie Fan

Gaby didn’t mean to do it. She wanted to, though — wanted to do something so bad that she might have something to write about — to make the words better than her own life, own breathing, Mark’s breathing. What else is there to it? They met a decade ago when she was halfway through a bland novel, an equally bland degree. They married and less than a year later, she began wanting. She thought that ten years was a decent run of things, a human sort of number [...]

Flowers by Mark Godfrey

She communicates through flowers. Daffodils are for happiness, carnations for sadness, snowdrops mean hope and tulips stand for strength. She saves dahlias for saints’...

Fiction | About You by Marjorie Main

Early on a Saturday morning in October I met Vivian at Liverpool Street Station. Stevie had a painting in an exhibition opening that night,...

Fiction | On His Own Ground by Vis Nathan

  First published in the December 1976/January 1977 of The London Magazine (Volume 16, No.5) Gopal entered his cubby-hole surrounded by huge racks bulging with musty...

Fiction | A Third Presence by Nadine Gordimer

When Rose and Naomi, daughters of poor Rasovsky the tailor, left school in the same year there was no discussion about what they should...

Into the Blue by Alison Lock

A bee is trapped behind the curtains––its silhouette circles the head of a printed flower. Edith pulls her arm free of the tightly tucked...

Fiction | Beloved by Roger Raynal

  That morning, when Ryoji woke up, fired from sleep by a strident, but usual sound, he refrained from opening his eyes. He wanted to...

Fiction | Sylvia Plath Watches Us Sleep, But We Don’t Mind...

'Sylvia Plath Watches Us Sleep, But We Don't Mind' was the third prize winner in our Short Story Competition 2017. We’ve been married three years...

Fiction | “Smack” from Salt Slow by Julia Armfield

The following text is an extract from the story “Smack”, taken from Julia Armfield’s debut collection Salt Slow, published by Picador: 'The jellyfish come with the morning – a great beaching, bodies black on sand. The ocean empties, a thousand dead and dying invertebrates, jungled tentacles and fine, fragile membranes blanketing the shore two miles in each direction. They are translucent, almost spectral, as though the sea has exorcised its ghosts [...]'

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