MIR Editor
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WELL DONE ME, by Cordela Feldman – EXTRACT
I’m sitting up in bed at my parental home, writing this on Mum’s computer. At the moment I spend about four days per week here, and three days at my flat. This house, where I spent the first thirty years of my life, is in Radlett in leafy Hertfordshire, just on the edge of the…
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NOT THE END OF THE WORLD, by Annabel Banks
Their fight will begin after dinner, once the plates are in the dishwasher, the surfaces wiped. This is unavoidable.
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DRIM, by Nick Norton
In The Villa they now wore grey jumpsuits, Velcro fastening, staff and guest alike wore the same. Ignatz alone wore a white jumpsuit. Everyone looked similar, although Garry Gold smelt very different.
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ANIMAL HUSBANDRY, by SJ Ryan
“Little old ladies…they should be taken out and shot.” Flecks of saliva spat from his mouth as he banged down the discoloured telephone.
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DEAD MOUSE, by Charlotte Turnbull
When we finally found it in the corner of the downstairs loo – the dead mouse – the children covered their noses with their sleeves and refused to eat breakfast in the kitchen because of an alleged lingering smell.
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MOON, by Jo Stones
For the third time this morning Mary looks through all the spaces, turns her head left, right, imperceptibly alert
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‘A DEFINING MESSAGE OF EDUCATION AND ACCEPTANCE’ : A CONVERSATION WITH DALE BOOTON ON HIS DEBUT POETRY PAMPHLET, WALKING CONTAGIONS, by Matt Bates
I wanted to write in a way that was bold, brash and blunt. I didn’t want to overuse metaphor but to say what I really thought on the matter. If my pamphlet expresses an element of the ‘defining message of education and acceptance’, then I have succeeded in what I wanted to do.
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THE DEAD GOOD FOOTBALLER, by Tarina Marsac
I love playing football. In a different life, I would have been a professional football player. In that life, I would have been good enough to be a professional football player. I would have played for Arsenal and England.
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FIVE POEMS FROM SPECULUM, by Hannah Copley
Juice All through Tuesday the air smelled like one big orange slice as if I could dip my fingers in the bedroom wall and bring them back coated in syrup. I could eat all the oranges I wanted:I was twenty-one and home for the summer and my dad was dead and love was oranges and…
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THE MONSTER OF INVIDIA, by ML Hufkie
The hospital looked deserted, though he knew it wasn’t. It was just that floor. Silent, and dank, like a sepulchre.
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