My buddy Meat’s the one who showed me the true joy of handling the M203. I mean, yeah, the M16 was okay. You hear a lot of us Marines making a big hoo-ha about our M16s. ‘This is my rifle, there are many like it, but this one is mine’ and all that. But after rolling with Meat, I’d take my M2…
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‘There’s this paradoxical nostalgia where even though yi suffered, yi miss it.’
Memoir by Graeme Armstrong.
‘She boils her sentences down to high-sucrose sweeties and calibrates her tone for maximum engagement.’
Fiction by Natasha Brown.
‘The monstrous years of my late teens lay lined up alongside the rest of my life like bullets in a gun.’
A story by Sophie Mackintosh.
‘Without waiting for me she removes her white shirt. Each button a piece of my own spine, undone.’
Fiction by K Patrick.
‘I followed him onto the dancefloor and he put his hands on my hips as if he’d known me for at least an hour.’
Fiction by Saba Sams.
‘Perhaps a more precise and academicish moniker for War Literature would be, Suicide Averted In Favour of Writing.’
‘The place we come from, the place we call home, is the home of our suffering.’
Jamaica Kincaid talks about finding her way to writing.
‘Parents should not have to bury their children. I will come to you, she whispers.’
Fiction by Himali McInnes.
‘It was 1 a.m., and it was Los Angeles; they were used to indiscretion.’
A story by Rhian Sasseen.
‘There was very little I could do in life except get dressed, smoke the correct cigarettes.’
An extract from Nothing Special by Nicole Flattery.
