The breast approached him, and he entered it. Drinking, he was milk.


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‘As he grew up he would drink, and likewise urinate, without embarrassment. Snacks, so long as they were light and informal, were liquids: casual and seemly.’
The breast approached him, and he entered it. Drinking, he was milk.
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‘She must have loved gold seeing that everything in the penthouse was gold. We didn’t sit. Fear didn’t let us see where to sit.’ A story by Adachioma Ezeano.
‘I had also, a week earlier, been fired for trying to sleep with my boss’s husband. I got the idea from a book, or maybe every book.’ A story by Emily Adrian.
‘The Mitsubishi conglomerate controls a forty per cent share of the world market in bluefin tuna; they are freezing and hoarding huge stocks of the fish every year.’ Katherine Rundell on extinction speculation.
‘Two roof tiles are missing to the rear: the kiss of death. Without repair, ruination is now inevitable. Until then, this is my best hope of shelter.’ Cal Flyn visits the island of Swona in northern Scotland.
‘I’m on the cliff of myself & these aren’t wings, they’re futures. / For as long as I can remember my body was a small town nightmare.’ A poem by Ocean Vuong.
Adam Mars-Jones is a writer and critic living in London. His recent novel Pilcrow restored a shy typographical symbol (¶) to its proper place in the breakfast conversation of millions. He was named one of Granta’s Best of Young British Novelists in both 1983 and 1993. He reviews books for the London Observer.
More about the author →‘Obscure repertoire is a sensible hiding-place for mediocre technique.’
‘At the end of the year, an ambulance brought Suseela home from hospital to die’.
‘I put my trophy on a high shelf, and at some stage laid it face down.’
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