The price of a taxi from the airport dwindles with each stride taken past the exit doors of the baggage hall and the stale, harried officers who guard them; those nabbed by touts at the outset pay top dollar for a limousine service that features no limousines, while the real bargains are to be found out beyond the terminal building where the air is coarse and mucky and the night slams up hot against your skin. You need a bit of guile to get there, though. My usual tactic is to chatter animatedly to no one on my mobile; I try and put on a real ensemble performance, all phatic fakery and apologetic grimaces to anyone who endeavours to catch my attention along the way. ‘Yabrince! ’ I yell into the void. ‘I’ve just arrived, bring the car round!’ Sometimes I pile on so much comradely slang in an effort to sound authentic that I get tangled up and trip over my words, momentarily confused by the silence at the other end of the phone.
Coming Home to the Counter-Revolution
Isis in Darkness
Margaret Atwood presents a man pining for his lost love over decades.
Do Not Say We Have Nothing
An extract from Madeleine Thien‘s Man-Booker shortlisted novel.
Zulu Romeo Foxtrot
Douglas Coupland on rock-star font Helvetica.
In Sight of the Lake
A women looks for control in a story by Alice Munro.
A mildewed dystopia from Camilla Grudova.
When We Fight, We Have Our Children With Us
‘We are all politically involved whether we like it or not, and children are already on the frontlines.’