Fiction
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GOOD VIBRATIONS, by Philip A. Suggars
Small-Hands leans towards you. You think, perhaps he was chosen to question you because he has a sympathetic face and his superiors have decided you will respond to sympathy.
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THE FIRST TIME I SAW BRENTFORD, by John Saul
The first time I saw Brentford I was thinking about the Roman invasion. Yet within the year the same forces were back in Gaul, taking no good memories with them; they would have done better to have high-tailed it back across the Channel before then
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A TRAIN TOUR THROUGH TEXAS, by Camille Lewis
Born early, writhing and screaming at 11.17am. If the train is on time, stone dead by 11.21.
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PRETEND READING, by Andrew Kauffmann
A cute steward walks down the cabin, the personification of busyness. He’s wearing a royal blue waistcoat and a blazer striped with flashes of dandelion gold.
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THE SPERM BANK, by Sian Bride
The vial of semen in the breast pocket of David’s denim jacket bounced against his chest as he walked down Harley Street. The heat pack next to it warmed his heart. Everywhere rich people faded from hospital buildings that looked like grand houses into glistening cars and black cabs. A group of nurses huddled together…
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LET ME GO, FOR THE DAWN IS BREAKING by Arianna Reiche
We had to go out, head toward the water and then maybe over to Leith, because the angel was back, fighting Dad in front of the flat, just really kicking the shit out of him
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THE BEGINNING OF THE END OF BAD MEN IN THE WORLD, by JL Bogenschneider
Francine chased her cereal with the spoon, while in the other room Cornice received another hiding. The milk had overwhelmed the wheat flakes and they were soggy and broken down.
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MY DIRTY WEEKEND, by Anne Goodwin
If he met her, I know he’d find her charming. Doesn’t everyone? But I won’t taunt myself with doomsday prophecies. I won’t let her gate-crash my dirty weekend.
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ON THE PHONE WHILE BLACKBERRY-PICKING, by Georgie Evans
She called as I was turning the corner of Churn Lane. I put up my hood, put my back to the wind, to save her from asking me to repeat myself. What are you up to?
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OFF THE RUNWAY, by David Plans
It’s three in the afternoon, and the flight from Hong Kong has not been kind.
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