ABC

Mar 242014
 
Dye It Red, She Said

by Christopher Owen
She rummaged in her bag for cigarettes; then, remembering that smoking was not permitted, put them back. Her bag was always tidy. Mel’s, on the other hand, was always a mess. Stephanie had seen her trying to find a lost earring, pulling everything out onto her desk: old tissues, loose change, Tampax, brushes, mascara, lipsticks, sellotape, door keys, half-empty bottles of Evian. That had been the Friday before Christmas. [read more...]

Mar 062014
 
The Case of the Missing Instrument

by Atar Hadari
Marty sat with a pint at one of the thick brown benches outside the NFT and realised he’d no idea where his instrument was. He had been down to Gabriel’s Wharf for his tea and eaten a greasy crepe whose traces had left stains all along his palms. He could feel the grease when he rolled his hands on the dark counter. He scanned the quarter mile each side of him and considered where the flute might be. [read more...]

Jan 302014
 
The Banker and the Thief

by Alex Cary
It never ceases to amaze me how fast the Elephant is gentrifying. There he is, late forties, full mac, three-piece suit, a tie pin, designer glasses and a briefcase chained to his arm. I can almost touch the aura emanating from his bonus. When did these people start leaving Chelsea? The lift stops. We’re only at the first floor. Another exercise dodger? No, great, it’s a kid, hood up indoors, the height of August. The banker freezes. [read more...]

Jan 272014
 
Swaps

Swaps by Chris Long
All the same, I remember them – and everyone else who lived in a council block – putting notices in the local paper looking for swaps. That is, asking someone with a house and a garden if they would swap. Even at the time, the idea seemed a bit far-fetched: of course someone with a house and a garden would consider moving to the fifteenth floor of a block of flats where, when the wind blew hard, the water swayed in the toilet bowl. [read more...]

Leo

Nov 072013
 
Leo

by Colin Tucker
I retreated to the bedroom determined to concentrate on work. My exercise books sat on a small table, one for the novel, three for short stories, one for general observations and two blank, though one of these had ‘BBC’ written on the cover. I opened it and unscrewed the cap on my Sheaffer pen. Motive, I thought, the murderer needs a good motive. Marigold came in and sat on the bed. My mind went blank. [read more...]