P-chan's messy head
1 It has been a while since Laurie’s last short story. And getting back to work by starting from scratch isn’t easy. The journey of a story is tricky. You draw a starting point and a destination on a map, and then you begin to sketch out your trip. However, if you’ve had a long Read More …
(life writing attempt) I will tell you all my secrets, but I will lie about trivial things. Firstly, you have to believe in fairy tales, which meant nothing to you when you were young. And yet, you hid some free-range eggs underneath a blanket, thinking that a dozen baby chicks would hatch. But they Read More …
“I do not know how much of my writing is true, or which parts (if any) are true. This is a potentially lethal situation. We have fiction mimicking truth, and truth mimicking fiction. We have a dangerous overlap, a dangerous blur. And in all probability it is not deliberate. In fact, that is part of the Read More …
“Why are you reading this?” said Jim, pointing at Graham’s copy of William Tell by Friedrich Schiller. “Have you gone all German?” Graham stared at him for a second but ignored the question and carried on reading. He was at the café inside the Student Union with Jim and Neil. “It’s not even on the reading list!” Read More …
Laurie was standing half-naked in front of the bathroom mirror, blow-drying her hair. Her son Vincent was making noises. “Mum! MUM!” He pulled at Laurie’s underwear so that she accidentally hit her head with the blowdryer. The string of her underwear slapped hard against her hip. “For God’s sake, Vince! Watch it!” There was no Read More …
It has been a while since Laurie’s last short story. And getting back to work by starting from scratch isn’t easy. The journey of a story is tricky. You draw a starting point and a destination on a map, and then you begin to sketch out your trip. However, if you’ve had a long break Read More …
7 a.m. She had been awake since three and packed all her stuff by four. She’d spent the remaining three hours lying in bed, staring at the ceiling while he was still asleep. Numb, counting his breaths every minute like she used to do with her dog. Her thoughts dwelled in the past until the Read More …
24th October 1986 Today I’m going to start keeping a journal. It was Mother’s idea. She was upset that I wasn’t using it when she first bought it for me. I think she loves me very much, but she doesn’t believe that I love her, because I don’t tell her things. Well, I don’t tell Read More …
July 8th, 1967, Saturday Yesterday was Kitty Genovese’s birthday. It would have been her thirty-second. I turned twenty-five yesterday and spent the entire night working at the bar, listening to older men babbling about President Johnson while playing poker. One of them was Michael Voorhees. He is a sixty-three-year-old fellow whose wife died last month. Read More …
Mum cut herself again. It’s the third time this week. It seems to happen whenever she is not cooking. It happens–it happens that you cut yourself when cutting cabbage, fruits or meats. I like watching mum cook dinner because she smiles at me, although not always. Sometimes she tells me to watch cartoons, but I Read More …
