Tuesday, 27 December 2016

The True Meaning of Christmas, Part 2




A sequel to my Christmas story, in which Cindy the manatee has a pretty crap 2016 but makes up for it in the end. <3

Monday, 19 December 2016

Litro


I also have a story in Litro today! Here it is.

It's funny. Both this story and the story in Room are stories I wrote a rather long time ago, when I was living in New York. That was a strange time, when the person I liked had just broken up with me and I was having a lot of odd adventures and promiscuous sex. Living on no money because my bank card had been cloned and cancelled, but with all the free money waiting in my bank account from the writing award I'd just won.

New York in winter with a broken heart and no money is an interesting place for a young writer to be. Especially when you know it is temporary. There are a lot of bridges to walk across, and nobody thinks it's strange if you go out to bars alone. I went to a lot of bars alone. I got in plenty of trouble. I felt like a magical car crash happening again and again in slow motion, never leaning its lesson, kaboom-bang-wallop.

It's funny, because my life is very different now. Reading these stories is like reading something somebody else wrote. A girl who was running very fast at the world, flinging herself and trusting it would catch her. I don't miss having no money and a broken heart. I do miss the bridges. And I like her optimism, that girl. Her stupidity and her bruises: they suit her just fine.

Room Magazine



I have a story in Room Magazine, in the This Body's Map issue, which is fabulous! Buy it here.

Tuesday, 29 November 2016

dreamsequence part 3

I woke up in a doctor’s chair, legs in stirrups. The physician read my fortune by the bones in my head. He told me what to watch out for. But he was grinning as he said it. “Can I trust you?” I asked. “We’re not at liberties to disclose that information,” he replied.

Monday, 28 November 2016

dreamsequence part 2

This time, the dream got into my computer. A virus! All the keys turned around, exorcist style, to show me their small white backs. I tried to type fast enough to outsmart the technological collapse, but my fingers got stuck. The computer screen swooned, limp as fresh pancakes, all across my hands.

Friday, 25 November 2016

dreamsequence, part 1

I had a dream it was 9/11, but instead of planes there were great pumpkins drifting across the sky. They’d warned us, but what can you do about that, really, we asked? What can you ever really do about anything?

Monday, 3 October 2016

Lyme's

Ready for autumn? Who here’s done with summer already? Not me. This one’s been stupid. That’s the only word for it: Stupid.

I’m not done.

I demand a redux.

Let’s face it: in the grand scale, in every scale, it’s been shit.

This summer, I thought at first I had a cold, because that seemed like a small, simple thing. A thing I could crawl out of at any point, and yoke myself back onto my life.

I was wrong. So very, very wrong...

Sunday, 2 October 2016

Best of the Net

Thanks to the lovely folks at Sundog Lit for nominating "The Things We Do" for the Best of the Net 2016! Cross your finger for me please!

Stadtsprachen

I'm super honoured to be participating in Stadtsprachen multilingual literature festival, this October in Berlin, at SAVVY contemporary.

More here!

Thursday, 9 June 2016

Petrichor Machine

I have flash fiction in issue six of Petrichor Machine! It's about exes, moving on, and rum cocktails. This summer, go give yourself the gift of not engaging with the things that make you miserable. It makes everything better, I promise.


You can buy the issue here!

Tuesday, 24 May 2016

Sleeping Beauty


I have an excerpt from my novel in the new issue of Adroit Journal! You can read it here.

Tuesday, 3 May 2016

The Beast

There is a beast that lives inside me. The beast has dirty feet and likes to make fires. The beast is very good at making fires. If we are on a hill or in a woodland clearing, the beast will be the first one to scurry into the undergrowth and come back hefting armfuls of branches. It is impossible to be angry with the beast. It would be stupid to wake up hungover and blame the beast. Yes, the beast was the one spitting mouthfuls of vodka into the flames to watch them turn blue, but that’s no reason to be held accountable. The truth is that the beast is the most pure part of me. The beast does not know shame. The beast comes from a place where embarrassment is not a part of the general (or specialised) vocabulary. If the beast wants to take off all my clothes, I will. If the beast wants to recite witch chants and conduct improvised sermons of pagan mythology, you’d better listen. The beast is related to mushrooms. The beast is not about lust—there is another creature inside me that takes care of that, perhaps the Japanese fox-spirit Kitsune or just a fifteen-year-old girl with one hand stuck permanently in her own knickers, but it’s not the beast. The beast would rather wrestle than writhe, rather scritch than smooch (although, what can I say? Of course, both creatures sometimes end up entwined.) The beast is related to the term “cuddle puddle”. It’s not that the beast is particularly adept at climbing trees or scaling rocks; it is just that the beast has a different relationship with the concept of falling. Mornings after, the beast is adorned with scratch marks and new bruises. Again: it doesn’t matter. I refuse to blame the beast. These marks are a small price to pay for a door cracked open to another dimension of the universe. Instead, I say thank you. I pet the beast; I let it sleep long and late. It will come back again soon enough. I will make sure of it. The beast and I—we shall run through the night, hand in hand.

Tuesday, 26 April 2016

Catch a Body, by Ilse Bendorf

I liked this poem. Here is your annual reminder to tell people that they are doing great. To remind your friends that they are good at things. To tell a stranger that their dress is beautiful. Without asking for anything back; just because. The world is nice.

Catch a Body

Salinger, I’m sorry, but “Don’t ever tell
anybody anything” is a string of words
I would like to wrap up in canvas and sink
to the bottom of the Hudson, or extract
by laser from the ribcage of all of us
who ever believed it, who felt afraid
to miss someone, to be the last one
standing. “Tell everyone everything” is
not exactly right, but I do believe that if
your mother looks radiant in violet
you should tell her, or when a juvenile
sparrow thrashes its wings in dustpiles
and reminds you of a lover’s eyelashes,
you should say so. We are islands all of us,
but we are also boats, our secrets flares,
pyrotechnic devices by which we signal
there’s someone in here we’re still alive!
So maybe it’s, “don’t be afraid.” We can
rewrite Icarus, flame-resistant feathers,
wax that won’t melt, I mean it, I’ll draw up
a prototype right now, that burning ball
of orange won’t stop us, it’ll be everything
we dream the morning after, even if we fall
into the sea—we are boats, remember?
We are pirates. We move in nautical miles.
Each other’s anchors, each other’s buoys,
the rocket’s red, already the world entire.

From Blood Orange Review.

Wednesday, 6 April 2016

Doorknobs

"There are times when we can feel destiny close around us like a fist around a doorknob. Sure, we can resist. But a knob that won't turn, a door that sticks and never budges, is a nuisance to the gods. The gods may kick in the jamb. Worse, they may walk away in disgust, leaving us to hang dumbly from our tight hinges, deprived of any other chance in life to swing open into unnecessary risk and thus into enchantment."

Fuck yes, Tom Robbins! So, this is the quote that will be introducing my novel.

Incidentally, the reason I am not publishing a poem a day in April is because I am bored of not having a novel yet. How the fuck has this taken me a year already?! All this touring the continent with my dreamy band and making out with cuties and having a job and stuff is very nice, but goddammit, I am the world's most impatient brat and I want my book nowwwwwwwwwww.

 So, uhh, that's what I'm doing every day this month instead of poetry.

My draft is an ungainly beast. So far this week, I have deleted 16, 780 words. Ow! It hurts!

But it's better now. It's starting to make sense. And there are new words, better words even. For example, today I used the phrase "horseradish intent". Nice, huh? It makes sense in context, I'm sure. It makes sense even if you haven't drank fifteen coffees.

Anyway, my book has everything I think is nice. Rollercoasters & magic mushrooms & fortune tellers & a punk show mosh pit & loads of jerking off & thunderstorms & all the queer makeouts ever & a drag queen minister & hitchhiking & abortions & witchcraft &&& MAGIC.

And so many happy endings. I'm a sucker for a cute ending. Now get over here and kiss me, kiss them all!

Saturday, 26 March 2016

Exhibition!!!



I'd be showing pictures from my collage career at the opening of the new space tonight! And reading a thing, no doubt. Come buy art! I'm pretty excited to be showing alongside Alex Highet, Tom Moore, Julia Rose and Damian Giambazi. Here.

Tuesday, 15 March 2016

Salome & Circe

This is the story of Salome and Circe, as based on these pictures in Berlin's Alte National Galerie. I do love Circe so. Such trouble. Such fun.

 

Friday, 11 March 2016

The Things We Do

A cautionary tale about what it's like to date straight men, now published at the fabulous Sundog Lit! 


Read it here.

Saturday, 5 March 2016

skittish skittish skittish

what’s the point in straight boys
what’s the point in no new messages
    / messages that are not gay smut messages
(I think
    my people are better than your people)
what’s the point in winter without fisting
what’s the point in light mayonnaise
what’s the point in brushing your teeth before bed if you’re going to
    eat ice cream naked
what’s the point in sheets without stains
what’s the point in plugging the blood
    (drip drip)
what’s the point in feeling like a hot crack in an infected scab
what’s so nasty about licking lips   
    that aren’t your lips for licking
what’s the trouble with stirring
what’s the plan for the weekend
what’s religious about opening hours
what’s the opposite of till death do us party
what’s this bit of soft skin doing
what are my teeth
what’s the point in resisting a sliptide
what’s better than helter skelters
I’d rather be dragged into the surf when...
what I wasn’t paying attention
what’s the problem with that

Friday, 4 March 2016

Did I mention...

...I was just named the best English-language writer in all of Berlin? It's true, it's true!


Indieberlin say:
More here!

sickpoem

sick as a bat hung
     from last summer’s trapeze

    & wearing a tiara in bed
it’s better like this   

    horny little weirdo
nicking hours from tomorrow’s naptime

lucid giggled twit

    the bed’s a boat so
I hoist wet flesh to the crows nest

lasso the expectorant seagull
    cough up a lump

waiting it out is like
    promising summer tomatoes

    in March
(the fruit is cold and plastic)

so I close my eyes tighter
    and pray for the glut


Monday, 29 February 2016

Well

Read a surreal tale of magic water in a Scottish back garden, by me, in the latest issue of Neon.


Tuesday, 23 February 2016

Your Heart is a Mysterious Pyjama Fort in the Midst of a Cold White Room

My story about hearts at a lovely new online journal, The Wild Word. Isabel Rock did the custom illustration cos she's amazoing!





Monday, 25 January 2016

The Wrong Quarterly

I have a story about keys and loneliness in the third issue of The Wrong Quarterly. You can pre-order a copy here!

Wednesday, 13 January 2016

THE DRUM!

I have a story, "Monsters", in the January issue of the wonderful audio litmag, The Drum!

It's a love story, for anyone who ever waited years to make out with a cutie.

Go make some tea and listen to it here!

Tuesday, 5 January 2016

SPOLIA!

I have a story in the latest issue of Spolia! It's the Virgo issue, which is exciting. From the introduction by Jessa:



Virgo is not just the sign of nitpickers and frolicking young girls. It’s the sign of the sow goddess Ceridwen. It’s the sign of the acerbic Dorothy Parker. It’s the sign of white magic and hard work and prayer. Virgo rules Paris.
The image we ended up working from was the nun. It was the nuns who were concerned about social issues, who lived lives of clean simplicity (in comparison to the over the top garb and pomp of the priest run Catholic mass). Nuns were the mystics and the outcasts, the spinsters and weirdos, but it was a conscious choice. They made their sacrifices so they could be of service. Which is the most Virgo concept of all.

You can buy a copy here!