Fiction

One bright Sunday morning in July I have trouble with my Notting Hill landlord because he ask for a month’s rent in advance. He...

After a career as a music writer spanning more than 20 years, David Keenan released his first novel This Is Memorial Device in 2017,...

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

For some reason taxis are always scarce in my district. Late on a wet night, the few there were would certainly be engaged, if their drivers weren’t already sitting comfortably at home in the warm. So I was worried about getting one for M, who’d looked in earlier in the evening on his way to visit a patient. He’d seemed quite happy talking about the wonderful big Mercedes he was going to buy as soon as he had enough money, and the wonderful time we were going [...]

"Clarify your intent," — Lama Chopra, our meditation teacher, rang the bell for us to sit — "the Reaper was once an old friend." My...

The London Magazine has long been a champion of emerging writers and independent publishers, stretching back to the 1950s and 60s, when young writers...

  First published in the June 1970 edition of The London Magazine (Vol. 10, No. 3) Like a statue too finely carved, too finished and perfected,...

  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...

It was an early May day. The war was considered over, though it had not yet been officially declared. A Russian junior lieutenant went...

The word necklace was intricate, beautiful. When she put it on it felt light, beautiful, as if she were wearing coral, or air. The word...

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

At last. Dismissing all fiction, I come clean. The figure coming into focus, in that smart black and grey coat, unbuttoned, collar up, is...

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

In Madrid, not far from the great museums that line the streets, old men row boats in the morning hours at Retiro Park. These...

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

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

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

I returned to work on a dismal Tuesday morning, emerging from the main entrance of London, Fenchurch Street, railway station under opaque grey skies....

'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...

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

Dur e Aziz Amna received second prize in our Short Story Competition 2017.  The year Asma moved in with us, we were living in a two-family...

‘So. What do we want today?’ I’m sitting in my local barbers chair, caped up like a clown - my head bulging through the top...

There’s someone in the kitchen. I hear the kettle being filled. I look at the clock, it’s not yet seven, he’s up early. He...

It had been twenty years since they last met. Thirty eight year old Eoghan O’Dullach was nervous inside; and in his brain he was...