Category Archives: Prose

For The Hell Of It

I enjoy watching the blossom fly up, up, up, high into the air only to hit my window and fall back, back, back, down-down again-to hit the hard and heavy soil I’ve been trying to drown for weeks. My books are painted with gold leaf and green and my rings are starting to turn the tips of my fingers yellow. My rabbit is eating a carrot and it is orange. Sometimes I feed him ripe fruits and we walk through the park together. I am free whilst he trails along on a leash. Life is but a moment, a moment which is to be lived. Unless if I strip it of all its significance and magnify my neuron in this sentence. Stop. Breathe.




Maybe I’ll grate chocolate for a while until all the silver melts away from the pans. It gave my parrot food poising last week and he hasn’t moved since then. He lies upside down like roast pork the right way up waiting for Henry the Eighth to pull-andripat a chicken’s leg before he takes a bite out of the apple sitting in the pigs mouth-


Just for the hell of it…

Dilpreet Kaur Walia

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose


Jack slept in their bed on his back, arms and legs stretched out like a big cross. Like da Vinci’s ‘Vitruvian Man’, that perfect anatomical man as decided by nature and noticed by the genius artist. He took up the whole king-size so Sonny never had any room.

Some days he wore tight T-shirts that touched him all over – queer little T-shirts, though he didn’t know it. Ribbed. Sonny liked those days, they made him look like a nineties boyband man. Worn with Adidas sweatpants positioned below his hipbones, it was trashy. He begged to be allowed to show him off at the Sweatbox, an elusive Soho gym with moisture-frosted windows where steam piped through the walls and out onto the streets, attaching itself to the lingerers outside, making them hot. He would be the star attraction. He would be stripped in seconds, the tight T-shirts undoubtedly seen as a preview, and after a preview there’s gotta be a show, the regulars would say, peeling him. But Jack said he wasn’t ‘about’ all that. He dressed for work, not attraction.

But he must attract himself, Sonny felt. To wear tops like that which marked out his ribs and muscles, he must love to see the shape of his own body. And it was understandable – if he liked looking at men, why wouldn’t he like looking at himself? Maybe he hadn’t acted on his sexuality before him simply because he was content fancying himself.

While Jack was da Vinci’s man, Sonny was Hogarth’s. A dirty caricature with no hope whose life so far could be drawn in dingy vignettes with crosshatching. Looking at Jack on the bed, he knew that people would always do whatever they could to save a da Vinci’s man, the nice angles, the bumps and the smooth, everything was right, all balance and prospects. Looking at himself in the mirror he knew there was nothing people could do for Hogarth’s guy. A stumbling, black-eyed loser whose place was the curb, not the king-size.

Every morning he felt futility, that he might as well leave, put his shoes on and run away. How could Hogarth’s guy ever satisfy da Vinci’s?

Mich Sanderson

Extract from Queer As Coke

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose


     The street was filled with worn spheres of gum. Thousands. Millions of gumdrops across man made streets. Gum sticks on lips. Lipstick. How many mouths is that? How many cocks sucked? Cocks crowned with lingering lip-gloss residue. Gloss carefully applied, wiped and reapplied. Touched up in mirrors and window fronts at Christmas time. While mulled wine is made in bars. Armies of Santa’s migrate in fancy dress flocks. Bands playing. And gum chewed before a kiss under the mistletoe. Discarded while entering the bar.

     How many cunts licked with a gum tinged tongue? For the first lick of the night and the last lick of a last licking in a woman’s life. On a hot night in June when all that was left after that was penetrative sex in a soft way. How many Mothers kissed? In deathbeds and on first days outside school gates. When it was inappropriate in front of friends or passed up because it was would have felt strange to kiss your mother after you had just got off with a girl or a guy, or both in the same night.

      How many words spoken by those mouths? When not chewing and while chewing. When chewing the chocolate in the end of a Cornetto and while chewing the stubborn fat from undercooked bacon. Words shouted in an ear at a concert and words whispered in the attic of a house party. Words tossed about without meaning. Words drunk up by masses. Words chewed up and regurgitated. Words which have been said over and over but now have new meaning. Words which cut. Words which cut away and cut a way- a new path. Words which sound false but are true. Words nonsensical. Words diabolical. Words obscure and hiding. Words which dominate a prayer.

Mouths which have drunk water and beer. Lips that have been coated by the invisible dust of a moth flitting round a room. Mouths cut by fish bones. Or busted on slide sides. Mouths which have blown up balloons and deflated egos. Words which have disgusted the elderly. The few. The majority. Mouths which scar mouths with words and communicate scar tissue. Mouths that have tasted snot on a cold morning. Or laid on the sofa in a hot evening with flu. Mouths that have asked to “Leave the light on” or “Open wide”. Mouths that have eaten grass… Just to see. Or licked the leather of a baseball and  a belt but at different ages. Mouths that have been bust and bled. The same mouths that have tasted something of blood in oysters.

Seki Lynch

A piece omitted from a work in progress.

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose