Liars' League

Kiss-Kill by Steve Wasserman

Feb 12 Kiss-Kill

Read by Cliff Chapman

Rybie! Ryabovitch!

Greetings, dearest friend. Your letter was a welcome respite from the stultifying boredom of life here in sleepy Melikhovo: the unwanted visits from dull relatives and Mamasha’s constant fussing and baking. If I have to eat another slice of that woman’s legendary sponge cake, “oh and maybe a glass of tea with that dear?”, I will be forced to take out my Balkan dagger, the same you once coveted, with the blade curved upwards like a man’s excitement, and run her through.

The Domestic Struggles of Nigel, Karen & Rodney by Nicki Le Masurier

Feb 12 Domestic Struggles

Read by Rhik Samadder & Gloria Sanders

From this angle she could be anyone. Face obscured by pillow and strands of sticky hair. The curve of her waist as it balloons out into her hips, a novice attempt at blown glass. I used to think she looked like a cello, but now it's slightly more double bass. Not that I’m moaning, no sir, not me. I like a bit of purchase. If I squint hard enough and I mean really squint she could even be Shakira. Bet Shakira wouldn't tut if I accidentally pinned her excess arm skin to the bed with my elbow. In fact, I bet Shakira doesn't have any excess arm skin so I imagine this probably wouldn't be an issue. And her hips don't lie. Although I'm fairly sure Karen's don't either. Unless there’s something she’s not telling me.

Monitor by Samuel Taradash

Feb 12 Monitor

Read by Ben Crystal

The baby monitor squeals and my hand jerks to find it, pulling me out of a dreamless, unsteady sleep. Before I know where I am or what’s going on, I’ve clutched the receiver to my head and I’m zeroed in on the source of the noise: May, my baby daughter, is crying in the dark. The sound rings in my head and down my spine; it cramps my stomach and makes my veins clench. She’s calling out because she’s scared or hurting. Something’s wrong and her daddy has to be there for her.

Student Union by James Holden

Feb 12 Student Union

Read by Greg Page

I caught sight of myself almost naked in the mirror earlier today. If I’m honest it was more of a deliberate peek. I’d just arrived at the hotel, you see, and thought I’d have a shower before I was due to be picked up. I didn’t like what I saw, though. My hair has started to recede, and I have acquired bags under my eyes that look large and almost droopy. My body is no longer supple, my chest hair is turning white and I seem to be developing breasts – what I think tonight’s audience would call “moobs” if I have the terminology correct.  Thin spindly legs emerge from old-man’s y-fronts.

Feathers by Liam Hogan

Feb 12 Feathers

Read by Lin Sagovsky

Two statues gaze at each other across the London skyline. One, perches high above a Victorian telephone exchange, now converted into Artists' studios, and is in the image of Mercury, the winged messenger. The other stands proud but unregarded atop the cupola of a Church, and represents either one of the nine Muses, or more probably Ariadne - the detailing is rather uncertain.

They gaze at each other with longing.

Extract from "The Whores' Asylum" by Katy Darby

Feb 12 Whores Asylum

Read by Camila Fiori

Diana, who runs a shelter in Oxford for fallen women, has confronted the villainous Lord Kester, who is trying to blackmail her – and been kidnapped for her trouble.

I woke in the dark, and knew at once that I was neither in my own bed back at the shelter, nor anywhere I had been to before. I was lying on my back on a wooden pallet, a cold, moist blackness pressing silence over me like a blanket. I was clothed still, for which I was thankful, and my dress was not greatly torn, nor was I injured, except for a thick throbbing ache at one side of my head, where I conjectured Kester must have struck me – whether to ensure my silence, or to vent his rage, I could not guess.

Now read on ...