The little girl’s my favourite by a long way. My mum would have said ‘she’s a bonny thing’ and she’d have been right. She kneels in front of me and we talk about all sorts and her smile always cheers me up no matter what kind of day I’m having. Last time she came she said that she wanted me to know that people suffer in life not in death. It’s a funny thing for a little girl to say but my visitors do talk about some funny things. I’ve thought about it a lot since she said it. She offered me her hand too. Her smile was so sweet and kind and I thought about saying yes, and I nearly did it. I nearly took her hand. Then I said no. No, not yet. And she was gone.
All three lived together in
that stuffy stone and corrugated iron
Welsh cottage at the foot of
a scrappily-wooded hill,
born there, never left there, died there
our two aunts and an uncle. Continue reading “Alice, Maub & Alvert by Tim Goldstone”
1. The Book Club
The famous crime writer met with his literary agent for help with a problem. It was strange, you wouldn’t think that this crime novelist, who was rich and successful, had any problems in his life at all. He was the author of the Inspector Tak mysteries – a series of police procedurals in which dour, working-class cop Ian Tak investigated serial killers (aided by DC Sarah Lombardi, a hot-headed half-Italian sidekick who wore expensive suits and had a habit of swearing in Italian). The books had been popular for many years but sales had begun to ebb. Feminists objected to the visceral rape-slaughters of the author’s anonymous fictional victims. Comments he had made on panels, at festivals, on his blog, and on Twitter, had been misinterpreted. It was time for a new direction.
‘Vampires,’ said the agent. ‘Vampires is it.’ Continue reading “Triptych by Max Dunbar”
The publisher had sent my book covers that morning
by email. Final proofs. I sent back that they were good
and bragged about it on the internet. We were in Paris
in a flat on Rue de Belleville, the 11ieme aron and 6 floors walk
up. It was beautiful. From the window to the horizon there was nothing but roof. Fallon had to
spend the day working Continue reading “Chef’s Privilege by D.S. Maolalaí”