Your name was Antoinette, and you didn’t belong.
The sun marked him as her own while he was still young and tender, a naive fisherman living in a wattle and daub shack by the sea.
If I could be anyone in the whole wide world, I would be nightclub toilet me.
I noticed the top joint of his left index finger was missing. ‘Fancy a game?’ he asked.
When we were both ten, Anna told me the reason my wishes never came true was because my birthday cakes were made using margarine, not butter.
When Bernice married, she was innocent in every way imaginable. Kirschbaum, it has to be said, was not.
Tobias crouches, shouts down to the man next to me, asks him to give me a boost up. The man stirrups his hands. I shake my head, take a step back from the wall. Despite the fizzle in the air, the clink of glass bottles, the clank of hammers hacking at concrete, I still expect … Continue reading Leaping, 1989
In Italy we were together every afternoon. I liked this even when he dominated me, said this is the way we look around a museum, we tend to have a nap at this time, and get on the bed and let me see you touching yourself. What else could I do? I couldn’t speak Italian, … Continue reading In Italy With Sean
Read James Tennent's story, Bobcats, first published in our WILD issue | “Bobcats are native here,” he heard someone say, a bush or two away, “at least they were. No one would have actually seen one for a good while.”