Issuu

C.R.

Megan Crosbie

Xanthi Barker

Peter Jorden

Sarah Evans

Resetarits

Ingrid Norton

Allison Smith Ian Kelly

/

Editor-in-Chief Eric Akoto | Online Editor online@litro.co.uk

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Megan Crosbie is a queer writer and occasional performer from Scotland. She particularly loves crafting fractured fairy-tales and often writes in the boundary between fash-fction and poetry. Her writing has been published around the world, both online and in print, in journals such as Firewords Quarterly, Dark Lane Books and Pure Slush. She enjoys travelling, drag shows, and too much wine. To read more of her writing visit www.mcrosbie.com.

Xanthi Barker is 28 and lives in London, where she works as a tutor in maths, English and science; and is a volunteer youth wellbeing trainer. Her stories have appeared in Mslexia, the Open Pen Anthology (2016), the Tings Tat Have Happened Flight anthology (Spread the Word, 2012) and been performed at Liar's League.

Ian Kelly is a biographer and playwright, author of last year’s West End comedy Mr Foote’s Other Leg and the Casanova biography adapted as Casanova the ballet, scenario by Ian Kelly and Kenny Tindall, with Northern Ballet. World Première, Leeds, 11 March 2017 followed by a full UK tour and into Sadlers Wells this Spring. For booking details and further information please visit northernballet.com/casanova Casanova, Actor, Lover, Spy Priest, was named Sunday Times Biography of the Year when it was published in 2008 (Hodder & Stoughton)

Peter Jordan has received various awards, including a literary bursary from T e Lisa Richards Agency while taking an MA in Creative Writing. T ree consecutive Arts Council grants followed soon after. His work has appeared in T hresholds , Flash500 , T e Pygmy Giant , Flash: T e International Short Story Magazine , T e Incubator, T e Honest Ulsterman , Brilliant Flash Fiction , T e Avatar Review , Dogzplot , Bare Fiction and Sicklit . In addition, six of his stories are in anthologies. He has taken time out from a PhD in creative writing to publish a collection of short stories. You will f nd him on twitter @pm_jordan .

C.R. Resetarits has new work out now in Te Chicago Quarterly Review, Te Southwest Review, Crannóg (Pushcart-nominated story), and Midwestern Gothic; out soon in Te Wisconsin Review, Reed Review, and Stand. Her poetry collection, BROOD, was recently published by Mongrel Empire Press, 2015. She lives in Faulkner-riddled Oxford, Mississippi.

Allison Smith is originally from Grand Prairie, Texas and graduated from Hunter College, CUNY with a BA in Creative Writing. She currently lives in New York City and teaches English at Hunter College.

Ingrid Norton's essays, fction, and reportage have appeared in publications such as Boston Review, Te Guardian, Te Los Angeles Review of Books, and Te St. Ann's Review. She is a doctoral student at Princeton University, and a former editor and journalist. Norton is working on a novel.

Sarah Evans has had over a hundred stories published in anthologies, magazines and online. Prizes have been awarded by, amongst others: Words and Women, Winston Fletcher, Stratford Literary Festival, Glass Woman and Rubery. Other publishing outlets include: the Bridport Prize, Unthank Books, Riptide and Best New Writing. She has also had work performed in London, Hong Kong and New York.

Te photographer Louis Dazy alternates living in Paris and in Melbourne and invites us here to observe a collection of photographs made following the double exposure process. Te artist puts people and natural or urban landscapes in relation, which are immersed in sweet orange and blue lights.

Tese anonymous persons take their place in the middle of the frame, in an atmosphere that can tend to be both electrifying and nostalgic, always with the same technic mastery from their author and the same stunning fnal rendering.

Editor's letter

Dear Reader,

Te social phenomenon of online dating has changed the way we meet and date people. Our frst edition for 2017 takes a look at the awkward First Date. First dates can be the start of something or the beginning and the end of it: we want them to go well, to give a good frst impression of ourselves and to hit it of with our date – we want to want to see more of them, and for her or him to feel the same – and sometimes we can’t get away from them fast enough.

Is a frst date like encountering a writer’s work for the frst time? Well, kind of but not exactly – you needn’t worry what the writer thinks of you – but still you fnd out whether you can get on with the writer, whether you want to spend more time in their company, or whether you can’t bear to listen to them droning on about themselves anymore.

Dating apps have made bagging a frst date as easy as swiping left or right our smartphones, can now connect us in a matter of seconds to potentially millions of singles available to date, chat or simply just hang out. Tis ease of choice some psychologists believe is a problem, psychologist Barry Schwartz in his book Te Paradox of choice, cites the

researcher who set up a table at an upscale food store and ofered shoppers samples of jams. Sometimes, the researchers ofered six types of jam, but other times they ofered 24. When they ofered 24, people were more likely to stop in and have a taste, buy they were almost 10 times less likely to actually buy jam than people who had just six kinds to try. So what’s going on? Tere’s just too much jam out there. Once you’ve made it to that frst date, you can’t focus because as soon as you go to the bathroom, three other jams have messaged you. You go online, you see more jam.

For cynics there’s an obvious stigma around the dating app – the increase in superfciality. But when you walk into room or party, often all you have are faces and height – so aren’t these dating apps just a huge festival of faces? Te social phenomenon of online dating is here to stay- dating apps ft too neatly into the busy lives of singles and apps like Tinder have managed to engage with the 18+ audience and importantly they make meeting people fun and efcient. Te hard part of the frst date is the changing out of your tracksuits, cutting short

the latest Netfix binge or putting that other writers book down, sticking to one jam and meeting them in person.

In Litro 159 we have a First Date with a group of writers you maybe haven’t met before, but whose work you’ll hopefully want to see more of. Tey giving us six stories and an essay. We have comical dialogue between biographer and playwright Ian Kelly and the world’s most notorious lover Casanova.

Our cover artist this month is the Parisian photographer Louis Dazy, a photographer who uses the double exposure process. Louis puts people in natural or urban landscapes and immerses them in orange and blue lights.

We open this issue with Te Remarkable Girls You can Find in the Peculiar Depths of the Internet by Megan Crosbie.

A story that’s just magical- though of course magic can be dark and scary-and far –from-magical.

Xanthi Barker’s Role Models is a story about an unromantic, apparently meaningless frst date that ends up echoing down through the years

Peter Jordan, gives us Mirrors – a story where we are left asking “Why did she take the bathroom mirror?

In Friday Night by Sarah Evans – an online profle – receives a: “Hi, I think you’re really cute and would love to get to know you. View my profle to fnd out more about me... “ What’s the worse that can happen?

We have dialogue, between awardwinning novelist and playwright Ian Kelly and the world’s most notorious lover, Casanova.

In C.R. Resetaris Bling, sometimes that frst date is so good it makes you question… everything.

Alison Smith’s Te Girlfriend

Experience is a personal essay about going on a date for money, ofering ‘a girlfriend experience’.

We close the issue – by going full circle with magic- The Dream Bridegroom by Ingrid Norton, a retelling of a South Asian folktale.

Eric Akoto Editor-in-Chief

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The Remarkable Girls You Can Find in the Peculiar Depths of the Internet

Megan Crosbie /

Some frst dates can be just a bit magical…

All her online photos had been of her cats so I wasn’t prepared for the blue hair or the fact that I’d fnd her septum piercing adorable.

We chatted, words fowed. She told me about her art studio, about backpacking around South America, about the notebook in which she collected the stickers you get on bananas. I felt compelled to tell her secrets but instead talked about my work, my migraines, my mother.

Eventually the words began to ebb away and we sipped at dregs of cofee.

I saw her smile.

“Want to see something?” she asked.

Before I could answer she leaned forward, brought her hands together on the table, palms up. I watched, waited, went to ask – then they started to glow. I jumped when the frst spark of light burst out. Suddenly dozens of tiny freworks shot between her palms and erupted like shattered rainbows, while doll-sized rockets looped and boomed around her fngers. I watched, unblinking, until the show ended and she blew away the twirls of smoke and ember wisps. She stood.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got somewhere to be. It was nice to meet you.”

She dropped money for her cofee on the table, the exact change. By the time I found the words to say goodbye, she was gone. I sat with the space in her chair and the smell of burnt wood. No one seemed to notice, the world rolled on, but for a moment I couldn't quite see for the inky splodges in my eyes, the afterimage of colour.

Role Models

Xanthi Barker

An unromantic, apparently meaningless frst date echoes down through the years...

To her chain-smoking fatmate, the morning after: God the music in that place, they played that Black Eyed Peas song about six times an hour and you couldn’t get a drink for all the people grinding on each other, all the guys leering in their pink shirts and the girls thinking they were pole-dancers. I stayed outside smoking. Pat wanted to leave, Joe and Hen were getting McDonalds. I was so awake. I went upstairs and he was standing at the bar, we talked for what like fve minutes? then I was like, Do you want to come back with me? and he got us a taxi. He had this big face, nice eyes, hair that greeny-brown kind of olive colour, you know, I really fancied his shoulders. We didn’t have sex, he couldn’t, you know, he was really sorry, but, he insisted on going down on me instead, I mean, he went down on me for like an hour, I mean, for ages. I didn’t know what to do. I put Pulp on and smoked his cigarettes one after the other, lying there with the ashtray on my stomach, like I was Scarface or something. I felt like a guy. Or like some guy who thinks he’s the guy in Scarface. When I came he kissed my knees, then he lay down beside me, kind of slumped, he reminded me of a walrus. He was big but not like, muscly big. I don’t remember his name, is that bad? Nikos or something. We lay there for a bit and I got really hot, I couldn’t even think about sleeping at all, he was sweating loads. I just thought, I don’t know, I thought the last thing I want is to wake up and have to chat to him in the morning, so I asked him to leave—I was like, if you don’t mind? I was nice about it. And he looked, like, fucking happy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man that happy, defnitely not after having drunk sex. He was like, ecstatic, he jumped up, I got up to say goodbye and he picked me up and swung me. He kissed me like in a cartoon, you know? We said see you around and he left. It was perfect.

A year later, after their fnal-year exam, talking to her classmate about whether or not in the twenty-frst century there is still a diference for men and women having casual sex : Because it’s so easy now, there’s no reason not to. For men or women. I mean— not to be essentialist right? Te stakes have changed, so the methods of control get subtler, but they’re still there. I reckon anyway. And the weird thing is, even as feminists, we’re still caught up in that patriarchal way of thinking. Because it’s like, not just your feelings but the actual facts that are afected by it. Do you know what

The Mirror

Peter Jordan

Why did she take the bathroom mirror? It’s the only thing that isn’t perfect in the whole deal.

Doctor Henry helped me get my new fat. While flling out my application form he asked, Do you know what points mean?

I said, No.

And he said, Prizes. Points mean prizes.

Yesterday, when the TrustBus dropped me of, I brought with me a single suitcase and a memory board. On the memory board I’ve written Lithium x 3 and Olanzapine x 2, and below that, Tea Bags and Flora.

Whoever was here before me left everything; there’s a TV, sofa, table and two chairs, and a single bed. Tere’s even some food in the kitchen cupboard and the place has been decorated. Te living room is magnolia, the kitchen green, the bedroom yellow, and the bathroom blue. I know a bit about decorating; my favourite television show is Property Ladder.

But there’s one thing that bothers me. In the bathroom, above the sink, is a white rectangle in the surrounding blue of the wall where the bathroom mirror used to be.

I’m lying on the sofa wondering why someone would only take a bathroom mirror when there’s a knock on the door. It’s a girl. She’s small with dark brown hair in a bob and she has big brown eyes. Tere’s something familiar about this girl; I feel like I know her, but I don’t think I’ve met her before. She tells me her name is Anna, and she says something about her brother and a letter. Sometimes when I get an overload of information I get a taste of copper in my mouth and I see snow falling.

When I come round I’m sitting at the kitchen table and she’s pouring water from the kettle into two mugs.

Are you okay? You look a little out of it.

I’m fne. Tank you.

She hands me a cofee.

I’m not supposed to take cafeine.

It’ll do you good.

I blink and continue to blink. Ten I taste the cofee, but I don’t like it.

She tells me her brother lived in the fat before me. Her brother died, that’s what she’s saying. She talked to him on the phone that day. Later, she called to the fat and found him dead. He was a diabetic who fell asleep and didn’t wake up again. She’s waiting for his death certifcate. It was posted to my address. She says she would have given everything she had to save him. I wonder how much that is.

Do you like it? she asks.

It tastes bitter.

/ /

Friday Night

Sarah Evans / /

Hi, I think you’re really cute and would love to get to know you. View my profle to fnd out more about me. Hope you’ll get back to me soon.

Five minutes in and already Geof has that sinking feeling, is wishing he could bail out. He smiles widely to cover the treacherous thoughts and asks another question, allowing the woman – Samantha – to continue talking, on and on, about her work, something in the legal department of a major pharmaceutical. Both of them are wearing ofce uniform. White blouse and black suit for her, with a chunky gold chain adorning her pale neck. Striped shirt and navy suit for him, a brighter tie than usual.

Te waitress interrupts the fow of work-speak. ‘Are you ready to order?’ Neither of them have taken time out to peruse menus or discuss what to drink. Tey bat back and forth – should they share a bottle, and if so red, white, rose? – while the waitress taps her pen. Her shapely calves provoke a sexual ficker which is markedly absent from his date.

‘Might as well order by the glass, go for what we really want,’ Samantha says. Tey can’t even compromise on wine-colour or commit beyond 175ml it seems. Tey order from the set menu, which limits the options and promises quick service, and already he can feel the relief of fight.

He is home too early for a Friday night, heavy with the weight of one more failure. Why does he even bother?

At work, a hi-tec consultancy, the women are mostly in admin roles, all too young, or old, or too thoroughly married. Of a weekend he goes cycling with a club: blokes, plus the odd dragged-along partner. Online dating is the practical solution to the fact that he meets no one new. He brings his own page up on the site for young professionals which he chose after careful dithering. His photo and profle present an image of solid dependability. In seeking dates, he sets sensible search criteria. Similar attainments in education and career. Close in age. Similarly ranked in the attractiveness stakes.

He is not going to worry about whether Samantha will contact him again. Does not need to log in now.

His fngers itch at the thought of information hanging suspended in hyperspace. It will only take a second.

He has two new messages.

Samantha: Tanks again for a great evening. Maybe cool things for a while. Like things have ever been remotely warm.

He replies with return nonchalance. Likewise, lovely meeting you. Some other time perhaps.

Casanova

Ian Kelly / /

Te world’s most notorious lover had quite a number of ‘frst dates.’

Award-winning biographer and playwright Ian Kelly, currently engaged with Northern Ballet adapting his Casanova biography as a major new dance work, imagines a ‘frst date’ with the original Latin lover.

IK: So – this is weird. I’ve had quite a few awkward frst dates, but never with a dead person –or someone I’ve written about.

GC: All dates are a sort of fction surely? A dance around reality – a construct of hope and daring – expectations built up and met, or not met

IK: Well you would know. Here’s the thing; I have thought about you a great deal over many years of writing a book and now a ballet, imagined conversations, wanted to understand you better – that much is very ‘frst date’ – but we need to get a few things out of the way frst –

GC: Like about all my sexual partners you mean? Isn’t that a conversation for a later date? If at all?

IK: Well, I’ve had some dates that have started there – that didn’t end badly...this is why you are still famous – the sex – not that you had that many sexual partners, but of course you wrote about them

C.R. Resetarits

Sometimes that frst date is so good it makes you question ... everything.

Claire Duckworth is a talented university scholar and an exceptional tutor. She is capable of compassion and sage advice, although disdainful of anyone who requires too frequent a dose of either. She is a valued colleague: strong will, strong opinions, but not monomaniacal; no game player unless all agree that the game's the thing—of course, then she can be downright sneaky. She is a woman of intellect, of intense discriminations, lofty goals, and exacting expectations. She is, quite simply, a snob, a real tofer. She was, for a while, a circumspect snob but has recently recovered from that malady.

Last term Claire had a crisis of confdence. Rather unexpectedly, the crisis did not involve her work. It may have been enhanced by her work, but it was not a crisis about her work. A sociologist, Claire had just completed her third book, Te Social Scientist through the Looking-Glass, an edgy, erudite, irritable account of the failures of her feld and the blatantly obvious path out of the quagmire. It was well received and more widely reported than either of her previous works—which had been serious little volumes full of graceful refection and convoluted data sets. How interesting, she noted, that it was her vitriolic volume that excelled, that propelled her out into the open. Was that the source of crisis then? Fear of being disliked? Fear of being misunderstood or thought too harsh? Her colleagues thought not. Indeed, not a one of them thought of disliking Claire or the things she said in her book. Tey all assumed she was talking about someone else— everyone else, really—and agreed with her thesis enthusiastically. Tey liked to be seen having cofee or lunch with her as never before, to be included in the coterie of those on the proper side of her looking glass. Was this the reason then? Tis sudden attention, this change of status? Did Claire perhaps think herself undeserving of such notice? Well...not really, not down deep, but perhaps she felt she ought to appear more humble, but this was only a small, small part of her problem.

Te real problem was Larry.

Larry was the contractor working on a remodel of ofce space at the opposite end of Claire's hall. Claire's favorite toilet—the big, clean one, with the intact tiles and working soap dispenser—was located there. High-strung, tea-addicted, small-bladdered as Claire was, she visited her favorite toilet frequently and ran into Larry frequently too. She thought he was cute, sexy, mildly threatening with his bowed legs and his big grin, but from the start she pretended not to notice him. What, after all, could they possible have in common—besides, that is, a perverse echoing of some dire plot of the soaps and, along those same lines, fantastic, unbridled sex?

But then one day she ran into Larry in such a way that pretending not to notice wouldn’t do. She came busting out of her favorite toilet, looking terri-

/ /

The Girlfriend Experience

Allison Smith /

A personal essay now, about going on a date for money, ofering ‘a girlfriend experience’

Years ago, I was in the East Village when I paused outside one of the darkly fashionable bars ordinary to Manhattan. It was a cool autumn night, and I stood watching the streetlights shining against the bumpers of parked cars. It had been raining earlier, but now it was over and the air was rich and damp; the rainclouds looked like bruises in the gray sky.

Inside the bar, a man was waiting for me. I didn’t know who he was or what he even looked like, but I knew his name was Alan and that he worked on Wall Street. I’d never done anything like this before. It was just something I’d slipped into, almost by accident.

I did not have high hopes when I clicked a headline written in all caps, SHARE YOUR STORIES OF LOVE AND ROMANCE IN THE BIG CITY. Te Craigslist ad was for a blog requesting true stories written by women describing their dating experience in New York. Te ad said they would pay ffty dollars per story. At this point, I’d never had what could accurately be called a love life, and I’d only been living in the city for a few months. But I was a writer and thought I could just make something up.

After I wrote an e-mail to the blog editor, attaching what could charitably be called a resume, I left for class. I bought a deli sandwich and ate it on the way back home, uncaring that honey mustard was sliding down my fngers and bits of lettuce and tomato were tumbling to the ground with each bite.

I kicked of my boots and opened my laptop. I was surprised by my own excitement when I saw the unread e-mail in my inbox. My excitement quickly gave way to dismay.

Te “blog editor” was a man named Leonard. No last name. He apologized for the deception and explained that he did not run a blog, but rather maintained a group of young women whom he set up on dates with rich, older New York men. He called it “Te Girlfriend Experience.“ He swore there was no sex involved, only that these men, usually corporate fnance types, were lonely and too busy for conventional dating. Tey just wanted someone to talk to. Leonard would fnd men online and then set up a date with whichever girl met that particular man’s preferences. Ten Leonard and the girl would split the payment. Was it something I’d be interested in?

I don’t know why I said yes.

Maybe it was because I’d been looking for writing gigs for the past month, anything involving editing or paid fction submissions, with no success. Seldom did the online ads sound promising, but it was becoming increasingly clear to me just how difcult writing jobs were to fnd. Even clearer was the realization that I was ill-qualifed to do anything but write. Ads for assistants called for someone “highly organized” and “prepared.” But my room, littered with empty soda cans and books stacked like coasters on the foor, was evidence to the

The Dream Bridegroom

Ingrid Norton /

Te issue ends as it began, with magic – with giants and gods, too – in a retelling of a South Asian folktale...

Usha lived with her father, a giant with a thousand arms, in an enormous house on a hill. More of a mansion, really, although the house was made of such old, thin strips of lumber that mansion seemed too sumptuous of a word. Usha had her own quarters, decked out with pale, thick carpets designed to capture the texture of sea foam. Gauzy muslin drapes covered the wide, creaking windows, which faced east towards the dawn and towards the ocean. On clear days, Usha could just barely make out the water —a thin strip of murky green-blue—on the horizon. She led a cloistered life, and designedly so. Her quarters could only be entered via the antechamber to her father’s rooms, and narrow, steep walls made of limestone encircled the house and its grounds (the house just barely protruded above the walls because of the hill, or mountain as the local mortals called it). Was it possessiveness or obliviousness on her father’s part that kept her confned? Tough daintier than her father, Usha was herself a giantess who wore earrings the size of boulders. Her father seemed not to notice his daughter’s transformation from eager girl, content to sit in the garden, braiding rose trees into garlands, to sighing young woman, absently playing board games with her consorts.

Usha’s only relief from her confnement came during festivities among the gods. Ten Usha could leave her father’s house. She stayed with cousins and family friends in places like the quartz caves beneath the desert and the eyes of hurricanes in the middle of the sea. One August she was invited to come celebrate the goddess of love’s wedding anniversary. Te goddess and her husband held the celebration above the marshlands, where thick, lustrous clouds meet the tree tops. Only female deities were invited so that no male guests could rival the god and to provide an endless retinue for the goddess: mostly apsaras, beautiful and sprightly nymphs, though Usha caught sight of a couple of ungainly giantess sisters from the West. A small group of professional musicians foated on a cloud, concealed by fog. Te nymphs danced to the light, rhythmic drumming. In the center of the gathering, the goddess and her god swayed and laughed. Te goddess of love tapped the beat with a massive ruby diadem, which she sometimes used to catch her beloved’s diaphanous blue garments. Teir dancing was playful. But every now and then, Usha (who had somehow found herself in the innermost circle of dancers) would notice a detail that both thrilled and shocked her. Te goddess gave her lover a ferce look, even as her eyes misted in rapture during the next moment; she caressed his ear lobe with a lust that was at once both sensual and precise.

At one point, Usha’s best friend, a nymph named Citralekha, leapt into the center beside the goddess. Citralekha was naturally slim and lanky, with dark