I’m entering the text below for publication in a City Lit anthology of creative writing, maximum length 1500 words. This is a second draft of shorter pieces I’ve shared before, and I need your help to improve it further before submitting. Please leave feedback in the comments. Third and final draft (for now) here.
William kept his shoes on as Kerry walked barefoot on the beach. She, in a tie-dyed oil-spill dress, showing off slender legs. He, somehow pulling off handsome with a fag constantly on the go. Continue reading “Paulie”
“You’re sick in the head,” Dad snarls.
“I probably am, living with you.”
I punch myself in the head again. It hurts more this time, but I try not to show it. Continue reading “Paulie, Stop”
The Shacklewell Harm was heaving.
Nigel sweated angrily while the barman chatted to his mates, before turning and walking towards him with a smile.
“Two pints of Doom, please, and a JD and Diet Coke.”
But the barman wasn’t smiling at him.
Nigel’s friends looked on, nonplussed, as he shouldered a hipster and forced his way to the exit.
Dalston was getting out of hand. It was time to take the power back. Continue reading “The Dalston Vigilante”
Legend has it that 666 is the number of the beast. If the beast has 3 horns, and each of those horns represents 1 of those 6s, it’s a good bet that for runners, 1 of those horns embodies the 6 marathon majors. How else can you describe the hell one goes through to achieve the hallowed goal of running all 6? I caught up with Junior Robbani, of Run Dem Crew, to find out.
Continue reading “The Six Marathon Majors”
“Do you want a cup of tea, Mum?”
I make one anyway.
She doesn’t mean it. Dad’s no-show upset her. Continue reading “After Dinner”