Fiction

by Denisa Dobrovodová This is an extract from 'Rarely Ever Isn't Never', a novel which explores the highs and lows of young womanhood, ruled by the chaos of obsessive-compulsive disorder.         She had to go through the whole process. Name. Age. Address. GP.  It was going relatively well. This time, the pharmacist was a woman, a woman way past menopause. Lisa hoped she wasn’t about to get a religious lecture. Some Gods don’t like contraception. Some Gods prefer you to go r

By Benjamin Greennagel This is an extract from a middle-grade novel, ' William Walden and the Island of Cursed Children. ' It was not unusual to see a woman with snakes for hair preceding over a courtroom—it was her job, after all. Whenever two people had a terrible disagreement, they came to Canary Castle and humbly requested the judge’s guidance. Whatever she said, they had to obey. In order to rule without bias, the judge wore a thick blindfold over her eyes. This also p

By Emma McKeown I heard something about therapists being like dates. You were supposed to get a bit casual with them when you first started up. You’re not allowed to give it all away up front because they might not be the one for you. And then you’ll have to go start all over again with the next therapist, and maybe you’re considered to be even more damaged goods than when you tried to get started with the first one. I read a blog article once about some girl when I was tryin

By Ethan McLucas The fractal pressed herself into the kite the whole way on their first tube journey together. The great grey cacophonous mausoleum that wired itself throughout the city seemed, for a moment, to be there just for them. This was despite all the swarms and swarms of pilgrims of people. To George, it was like he had just emerged from the caves and was seeing the bright city lights for the first time. But Georgina, she already fit right in, as if existing in

By F.C. Zeri   It was the first day of April, and I broke my good streak. This time, the trigger was a voice note. I had clicked my phone screen carelessly, not expecting the ambush of Helen’s sharp timbre. Her voice hasn’t changed in five years. I didn’t give myself the time to listen. I got out of the house, set the GPS despite knowing the road by heart, and boarded the first train I could find. For a while, I just stared at the window. My inner monologue neatly split into

by Beth Hurst This is an excerpt from the work in progress novel, ‘The Part That Can’t Remember’, which explores fractured memory, toxic relationships, northern identity and the transformative power of female friendship. The Boy remembers rugby locker rooms. Coach barking pep talks, the sound bouncing off the low ceiling, picking chunks off the silver pipe insulation when Coach wasn’t looking. He remembers cold showers, naked and looking at the ground, because looking up mak

By Megan Baffoe First published in Roadrunner Review Ella waded out into the river the night before the wedding. I fetched her in, at perhaps two-o-clock, pale as her nightdress and near-drowned by the rain. She cried like a newborn as I ran the bath and like a widow as she drank her tea. “He’s waiting for me,” she kept saying, “he’s waiting for me.” So I pulled open the curtains. “He can see you in here,” I repeated over and over until she had fallen asleep. “He can see you

By Annabel Bird An extract from a novel, 'Ferryman's Rest' The couple fall, giggling, into the sodden evening. The woman is Anna—that’s instantly clear from the straightness of her golden hair, its enviable thickness, the way it drapes to her shoulders like expensively lined curtains. Even though Nessa is sitting in the bus shelter on the other side of the street, she clenches her fist as if to stop herself from stroking it. The light above the pub door shines on Anna’s crown

By Hadassah Williams He wants to talk, so you offer to drive. At least this gives you something to do with your hands as you don't know what they'll do if they remain idle. If all at once you remember everything, and slap him open-palmed across his face. Or worse, you forget, and run your fingers along his jaw, letting them linger in the small dent behind his ear.  Maybe if you had eaten he and his text messages would have remained unanswered. You wouldn't have felt the nee

A short story by Denisa Dobrovodová   It was a miserable morning, like almost every other one, when Sara heard the cry of her firstborn and rose to consciousness on an ancient mattress covered in sweat and piss. She stayed lying there with her eyes closed for just a little longer, attempting to gather the strength to face the day. She was twenty years old but appeared older, the beauty of her fair skin contrasted with her dark brown hair and the fullness of her body was accen

By Beth Hurst A series of short stories Firecrackers   As we pulled onto the pavement outside our house, I could see our neighbours standing in their driveway. My father shifted in his seat and braked slowly. "It happened this morning," he said without looking at me. "Michael told me a few weeks ago his dad wouldn't last if he kept drinking like he did." Michael was there with his older, fatter brother, the one my mother sometimes pointed out to me when we walked past the ba

By Osman Haneef   DISCLAIMER   This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Including any resemblance to the author or the use of the author’s name.     "There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact." — She

By Raluca David -5 I awoke at the beginning of history, or certainly the time when Herodotus began to write about istoría . I awoke in this city of heat, where creatures do not hide from cold, where the body’s comfort allows the mind to wander. I learnt, for learning is the greatest virtue of these cloth-over-the-shoulder creatures here. I learnt that the town square stone is where lizards lie, where humans of knowledge orate, where men gather for ekklesia , their meetingpla

By Benjamin Greennagel The parlor drips with bourbon, amber light, flooding the french doors as the sun sinks into the sea. I work at my canvas as other patrons of the hostel pass through, lingering at the edge of the room to watch me. A postcard rests on the tray of my easel, which feels more imposing than the gaze of my uninvited audience.   Jonathan Honey Maison du XXème Siècle Cannes, France   13 June 1932                My dear boy, I expect you have been captured by the