Author: Idle Ink

Memoir by Idle InkMay 2, 202010:13 am

I Taste Blood by Rebecca Portela

I forget where we got it from. I forget where we got any of our drugs from. Adrian would make a call. He would sometimes be hesitant to make a call, like maybe he had burned that bridge a few times before. Eventually it was 4 a.m. and we got a few hits of acid. We sat on a bench at the 23^rd Street subway station waiting for it to kick in. If you know anything about drugs, you know that after an hour, or what seems like an hour, you confidently decide that this shit is weak or fake because it hasn’t hit you yet. So you take more and then, immediately, the first drugs take over and you have a much longer night than you planned.

Starting an acid trip at 4 a.m. is not smart. And taking a second dose at 4 a.m. is what you do when you are with Adrian.

Poetry by Idle InkMay 2, 202010:12 am

Still Ill by Clara Roberts

I’m emaciated, wearing blue corduroy’s—sitting on the splintered wooden floor.

I look at the man, Kevin, who injects himself—the needle permanent as it pierces the skin. When I watch him, all I think of is when it’s going to be my turn. He’s used heroin intermittently for fourteen years and fights to find a vein.

flash fiction by Idle InkMay 2, 202010:12 am

Solstice by N.R. Baker

You moved like a glacier through the best years of my life. Shaped me hugely, imperceptibly, until I’d forgotten what I was before and had become something that made no sense after you were gone, something carved and scalloped by a million unnoticed excisions. After the divorce I looked for myself in what you’d left of me, but saw nothing I recognised in the bleak, hollowed place where I thought I used to be.

Drip…… Drip.

Fiction by Idle InkMay 2, 202010:11 am

Minnesota English by Jessica Evans

Every prayer group meeting starts precisely the same. Men in shirtsleeves rolled to their elbows (when the temperature rises above seventy), or wool sweaters politely folded back against their wrists carry crockpots while the women walk behind in a single line, carrying lighter plates. They place the dishes down delicately and then slowly backstep away as if the food might suddenly demand their penance or refuse to participate in the weekly meeting. There is reverence in their counterfeit kowtowing (low and slow) as each woman tries her best not to bump into the other. The hot dishes become veiled in regency.

Interview by Idle InkApr 4, 202012:33 pm

INTERVIEW: Jessica Zschorn, multi-disciplinary visual artist

Jessica Zschorn is visual artist based in Hull, UK. Whilst she is perhaps best known for her distinctive illustration style, her vibrant photography and graphic design work, she is also an entrepreneur and one-third of Meek, a quirky, feel-good band who recently headlined at Scunthorpe’s Café INDIE on International Women’s Day. With numerous projects on the go and a CV longer than everybody else’s put together, it would be easy to feel intimidated by Jessica’s success. Thankfully, her sunny demeanour is enough to put anybody at ease.

flash fiction by Idle InkApr 4, 202012:32 pm

Tower of Strength by Mark Anthony Smith

I look up to the seventeenth floor. She is small and so high up. It would be easier to see her as a dot or a full stop. But she is subjective and coughing from the smoke. She has no choice. I cannot imagine what she is feeling. Maybe she isn’t thinking at all.

Fiction by Idle InkApr 4, 202012:00 pm

Triggered by Dan Brotzel

‘How do you say your name, sir?’ asked Brian.

‘Afamu.’

‘AHH-farrrrrrHH-MOO? OK, sir, I’ll do my best with that.’

‘And what about you, my dear?’ He looked at her encouragingly.

‘Jill,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Jill!’ he said, with a satisfied smile to the rest of the group. He seemed to be saying: Why can’t everyone else have a nice straightforward name like that?