A short story on the theme of War and Peace would naturally feature two lovers. A would love B more than B loved A. They would quarrel, and they would have sex. There would be no room for small gestures, for sniping, for passive-aggression. Only the great emotions would be good enough for A and B. Fury, lust, and wracking despair.
Continue reading "A Short Story on the Theme of War and Peace by Edward Sandling" »
When I get into work (at 9.05, earning a glare from Geraldine who sits opposite), the photo's already peeking coyly from under my keyboard. Lee’s ripped it out of the Business Beacon newsletter and circled someone's head so many times that she’s peering out from a halo of green biro. Underneath, in block capitals, he’s written: IT’S HER.
The day the war broke out I was washin’ carrots. I was working next to Sal. She was wearin’ a read-my-tits T-shirt that said, ‘If you can read this, you’re almost close enough.’ That’s not a good position to be in when hostilities are imminent. I was standin’ at the racks with my scrubbin’ brush. That’s what we did at the London Carrot Washery. We washed carrots.
Continue reading "Sal and Me, and Big D’s War by Brindley Hallam Dennis" »
He doesn’t look so tough for a hero, if that’s what he is. He’s way short first of all. Like five foot nothing. Looks like he’s still in high school, though he’s a couple years older than me, and I’m about to be a sophomore. At State. Before now, last I’d heard of him was when he did Mallory Dawson in the back seat of his black Mustang convertible. We were in junior high, Mallory and me both. She was my sweetheart then, though she didn’t know it. She was starry-eyed for older guys, guys like David Doogan laying in wait to steal her virginity. Son of a bitch. He became my arch-nemesis then, though he didn’t know it.
Years ago I lived with my then girlfriend, Beth, in an old house on Hunter Street which had been divided into eight squalid chambers, four upstairs, two downstairs, one in back, and one in the basement. I won’t pretend that times were good, or that the rent was reasonable—they weren’t—but the people I met there still hang around in my memory like old coats in a hall cupboard. You remember them every so often when you are looking for a scarf or a vacuum cleaner.
Bonello was one of those people.
