Here in space you don’t often get the chance to meet women, so Taylor and I are pretty excited when we get the signal from over Tau Ceti direction: two female bipeds, mating-age, in what looks on the screen like one of those vintage Aulaab roadsters. It’s been months since we’ve so much as spo…
Sign in to Granta.com.
‘The anglophone world, we have to infer, has run out of words for its own feelings.’
Daisy Hildyard on the wisdom of scarecrows.
‘What is the read receipt for?’
Lillian Fishman on texting, power and the ethics of leaving a friend on read.
‘Like pretty much everyone who uses the internet, I have seen many terrible things that I did not search for and that I cannot unsee.’
Rosanna McLaughlin on what the internet thinks she wants.
‘I have a pathological addiction to the internet, which I indulge with the excuse of making art. It rarely translates to anything good and mostly leaves me overstimulated and afraid.’
Paul Dalla Rosa on excess and the internet.
‘rumors of bees on speedwell, / no oxidative stress just / effortless pollination’
Two poems by Sylvia Legris.
‘On this fine, hazy day, the eyes are hazel, the tongue long and spackled with a white coating.’
Fiction by Fer Boyd, winner of The Space Crone Prize.
‘It’s right to extract bone from the afterlife’
A poem by Peter Gizzi.
‘You don’t understand. The country where I used to live is now gone.’
‘That smile the President has – it was just the same then as it is now.’
Fiction by Rebecca Sollom.
‘It’s a story that happens to you once and then lives with you forever.’
An excerpt from Vagabonds! by Eloghosa Osunde.
‘Six days a week he rose early, dressed, ate breakfast alone, put on his hat, and walked to his barbershop at 207 Henry Street on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, about half a mile from our apartment.’
