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Channel: Fiction – Rachel Watts
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Only Blue Will Do by Mark Rippon

There’s something about an author who adds his own commentary to a quote by Albert Einstein on the opening page of his novel. I really wish Mark Rippon hadn’t quoted himself, I immediately judged him....

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Finding the story with two hands and a trowel

Writers: if you could tell someone what the story you’re working on is about in one word, what would it be? I have, for the most part of six months, been working on a tale. I have a first draft. It...

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Dabbling in dystopia: Going Home by Emma Lindhagen

The posters from the Decency Office were everywhere, in the streets and the malls, in the schools and any other publics (sic) space, even in the airport. The slogan rang out during the commercial...

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Embracing the wild: The Wolf Border by Sarah Hall

Susiraja (Finnish) – Literally ‘wolf border': the boundary between the capital region and the rest of the country. The name suggests everything outside the border is wilderness. Rachel Caine studies...

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Lost & Found by Brooke Davis

How do you get old without letting sadness become everything? I saw Brooke Davis speak about her breakthrough novel Lost & Found late last year so I’m not sure why it’s taken me this long to read...

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About a girl: The Lightning Tree, Emily Woof

The priest had reached into his pocket and pulled out a small Bible. Everything you are searching for is here, he had said, this is the word of God. She’d read it hungrily, searching for answers. The...

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Your satisfaction is important to us: Horrorstor by Grady Hendrix

It was dawn, and the zombies were stumbling through the parking lot, streaming toward the massive beige box at the far end. Later they’d be resurrected by megadoses of Starbucks, but for now they were...

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The Strays by Emily Bitto

It is strange which events leave those deep scars we carry with us over a lifetime. When Heloise talked about that night, even years later, it was with a bitter seriousness, a complete inability to see...

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Square Affair by Timmothy J Holt

Her ears were turning red, and with staring set eyes, she attempted to demoralize Bob. I could see the spatters of her spit. “I find that filthy, dirty, and disgusting.” Bob stood his ground, never...

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Everyone Dies at the End by Riley Westbook

The zombie apocalypse is upon us. Created by a heroin addict supplementing his girlfriend’s hit with mold spores, the resulting undead are lurching creatures spewing black vomit. We follow the junkie...

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The End of the Trail, Louis Rakovich

Then begins the forest. It’s possible to sleep there at night without a roof over your head. The wind is calm, and a good bonfire will hold. There are few animals there, and one creature who whispers...

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A lick of night: Grief Is The Thing With Feathers by Max Porter

I plucked one feather from my hood and left it on his forehead, for, his, head. For a souvenir, for a warning, for a lick of night in the morning. For a little break in the mourning. Grief and its...

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F (a novel), Daniel Kehlmann

Martin felt as if his existence had split in two. He was sitting here, but he was also lying on the asphalt, crumpled and still. His fate seemed as yet undecided, both outcomes were still possible, and...

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The Natural Way of Things by Charlotte Wood

The razor glinted in his hand – he was bored again, and tiring. He unclipped the leash and shoved at the chair so it jolted forwards, tipping her out. She fell but stumbled, recovering, upright. All...

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Severed limbs and fresh air: Formaldehyde by Jane Rawson

So when the streetcar slammed hard into something and the people were screaming and there was the falling and more of the screaming and copies of The Idiot were drifting in a pretentious snow around...

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A Cure for Suicide by Jesse Ball

– I mean, if someone is dead, then that person is gone. A gravestone does nothing to fix that. And if it makes a place that others can go to be near the body of the dead person – then how does that...

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The Eye of the Sheep: Sofie Laguna

I ran into the bathroom where the tiles were white and cool and I leaned my cheek against the wall. I looked at the crisscrossing lines. I traced my finger up and down the grooves where the mould...

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The End of Seeing by Christy Collins

We lived between nappies and traffic jams, mobile phones, and a small stretch of green we called our own, which we rarely saw in the daylight. We reminded each other of garbage collection schedules,...

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The desire to bleed

I have a short piece called Blood up at Danse Macabre’s DM du Jour today. I don’t know why all the pieces I’ve written lately are so dark. But I enjoy them. Hope you do too. Have a read, feel free to...

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We Are Not Ourselves, Matthew Thomas

At the end, they handed her enough drugs to last Ed the thirteen weeks until his next scheduled visit. There was a jolt of promise in the bag of medications. She wondered for a moment whether, if she...

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