This month we have for you: a fanboy on a sacred mission ... a quite unbalanced stage magician ... a bloke gets pissed on by a dog ... a brace of killers joined by blood ... a fortune hunter's secret shame ... and a "Millionaire" still in the game.
Podcast. Listen. Enjoy. And read.
Every night, Dave Gahan out of Depeche Mode visits me in my sleep.
Fame? On its own? It’s useless. Trust me on this one. Now, fortune, on its own, is nothing to be sniffed at. In fact, you could say it is to be positively encouraged. You wouldn’t catch me amongst the morons who fail to tick the “no publicity” box on their winning lottery tickets.
Continue reading "How to Build a Mass Murderer by Liam Hogan" »
One. Mark is pissed on by a dog.
A dog has been running around the scrubby grass of Leicester Square Gardens since Mark and his friends arrived. At first, it tried to eat the scraps of their burger king burgers before turning its attention to other a group of tourists. Mark’s teenage girlfriend watches as it hungrily takes ice cream cones from their hands. A couple of shirtless labourers, soaking up hazy rays, taunt the dog when it tries to eat their sandwiches. None of Marks’ friends notice when the dog trots up to Mark, sniffs his back and cocks its leg. They hear the piss hitting his bomber jacket before he feels it soaking through. His reaction – jumping up and swearing – is slightly delayed, and the reaction of his friends – laughing loud schoolgirl laughs – doesn’t happen immediately either.
Continue reading "Mark's Fortunes: A Story in Eight Parts by Laura Williams" »
Geoff began sweating as soon as he was in his seat. The studio lights fried him more than they dazzled him, and they dazzled him a great deal. The blaring music, the suddenly unleashed audience noise, the horrifying realisation that the cameras were actually rolling! It was all he could do to lift his arm, let alone move it about. But this was what he’d chosen, wasn’t it? To be rich! And famous, of course. It was all about choice.
I saw Scott Free alive again last night. A dead man sauntering, joking and smiling. Except it wasn't him, just that portion of his soul captured and released, mere shadows of light flickering across the TV screen. It was only a short clip, and as they cut back to some opinion-for-hire telling us how important Scott had been, he disappeared into a volley of applause. He'd have liked that. He’d have hated it too.
Continue reading "The Clapping of Unseen Hands by N.D. Gomes" »
It’s in a hotel – no, in a series of expensive and discreet hotels, that they meet – no, that they meet, chat briefly, drink, undress, and have sex. It’s a classic pattern, time-honoured. It’s worked for years. So Melissa is more than a little annoyed when Gary throws a spanner in the works.
Feast your ears and eyes on fictions involving a post-apocalyptic looter, suggestive cigars, sex-starved film-buff flaneurs, an all-or-nothing lover, and the ultimate global consumer.
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The two most popular cigar sizes are Churchill and Panatella. Churchills are long and fat. Panatellas are long and thin. If we’re talking about cigars you can say we’re dealing with length and girth. Length is measured in inches. Tell someone you’re offering them two hundred and thirty millimetres and they’re not sure whether to laugh or cry. Tell them you’ve got nine inches, and tears will fill their eyes. They’ll smile too. Girth is measured by ring gauge, calibrated in one sixty fourths of an inch. That’s what it’s all about. Let’s get down to basics. Girth gives you intensity of experience. Length gives you duration.
If we’re talking about Henry, it’s not quite so simple.
Leaning, against the wind, on the concrete brim of a water feature in the middle of the Brunswick Centre’s concrete plaza, Henson scratched his recently-bearded chin. Spray, whipped by the breeze, dotted his cheek. Honoria the Dentist was late; the film started in five minutes.
Well, the ads started in five minutes, after the lights dimmed and the screen glowed briefly, an enormous Rothko. And then there were the trailers, ten minutes after the start of the ads. Ten more minutes of trailers, then, and then the click and hum of the curtains, the pitch into blackness and the BBFC title card. The first chords. So, the film started in twenty-five minutes. Still, Honoria the Dentist was late.
Continue reading "Incurable Romantic Seeks Dirty Filthy Whore by Martin Pengelly" »
