"In my experience of writing – and of life – the frenzy of dreams and that of form always go together." Iosi Havilio
New voices
Springtime, Anchorage

Springtime, Anchorage

When I was twelve, I killed a boy. We were on the fifth floor and messing around on the benches by the window. It could have been me that fell, just one of those things. It was ruled an accident, no charges were brought, but the Fates had a punishment for me. I grew up...
The wandering shop

The wandering shop

“Where did you get that?” Billy shrugs. “Shop.” He continues to suck on a rainbow lollipop, exposing new bizarrely coloured layers with each slurp  – a Russian doll of illicit sugar. Laura has somehow failed to notice that her son departed for his weekend outdoor time with a low-sugar, high-fibre apple and returned with a...
Next time, email

Next time, email

“Airport, please.” All things considered, it’s something closer to vindictiveness than politeness that has him jump into the cab at the last minute and fold himself between her and her luggage. It’s only when she inches closer to her window in response that he becomes aware of the true time commitment of this ride-along. But...
Thread

Thread

She is in the labyrinth again. Darkness is seeping through her nostrils, into the corners of her mouth, around the edges of her eyeballs, trying to reach right inside. She pushes against it, one hand thrusting forward into the swell of shadows, the other behind her, closed around the unravelling spool. Each step costs all...
To the Holy Mountain

To the Holy Mountain

It was Holy Week when they found him. His wallet was missing, along with one of his shoes, but they were all drunk and Nick was always passing out in cathedrals, and so it took them fifteen minutes to realize he was dead. Dato woke me up by throwing oranges at my window; they shouted...
Sex Education

Sex Education

Daylight pries at my eyes. In a heartbeat, my focus shifts from a pleasant dream, instantly forgotten, to the red-pink glow that the sun sets off under my eyelids from behind the closed shades. I am aware of morning, of a bed sheet draped in bunches over me, of the warmth of late May –...
The road between

The road between

In summer, we ride out of the city. To Reims, to eat crêpes beneath the barbarous heights of the cathedral, counting the kings who were crowned there. To Normandy, where waves lap placidly over bloodier histories. To the languid beauty of the Marne. In summer, there are mornings when Chris looks up from his Libération...