Author Archives: Alan McCormick Writing

GO WILD IN THE COUNTRY As Nadine walks slowly towards the entrance to the Villa, she ties her dressing gown tight around her waist and slides the palms of her hands down from her thighs as if she’s rubbing away … Continue reading →

My phone is my camera. I like to be able to document things at any moment. ‘You’d shoot anything that moves,’ my girlfriend says. The boys in a farmyard west of Bucharest weren’t interested in posing. Except one: Danut, smoking, … Continue reading →

JENKINS Jenkins fucked me on a beach at Dungeness and my knees carried the indents of pebbles for days after. I’d seen him the night before in a drag pub in Brighton, talking with some men at the bar. In … Continue reading →

RAHAD ‘I can offer you all kinds of everything, anything you want because I own nothing that I can call mine. All gone. Given away, stolen, spent.  I can give you my arms to hold you, my whiskers for a … Continue reading →

I punched a dog, Dan. You did, you punched a dog, Ned. Punched him real good. You did, yes, real good. Should I shoot him? If you like. I don’t like. Don’t shoot him then. Don’t think I will. Don’t … Continue reading →

Where is the Light? The world in mustard hue, sun toxic, sky sulphurous, the dying of light. I come with two others, the last three standing. Frances manages to find enough water for us, has kept some tea back, scraped … Continue reading →

Amidst the noisy throng of a south London high street, he mouthed ‘Noel Edmonds’ at a white sports car blasting ELO into the blue sky. His mouthing was cartoonly graphic and didn’t pass unnoticed. Soon there was the sound of … Continue reading →

Last night you had been drunk, but not legless. You had checked your run in a camera shop window along the Strand. You were surprised by the uniformity of your stride; even after the altercation. You had been at the … Continue reading →

I AM A ROCK I may be an island too. Simon and Garfunkel’s song is playing at the start of year assembly. It’s 1976, the start of punk, and the spiky boys are sniggering. On stage, head-girl Melanie, straight spine, … Continue reading →

  It really was a miserable party, it really was. Young Hilary Stoppard and his pretentious young set contemplated the splenetic corners of art’s responsibilities within a splintered decaying cosmos. Under an ageing Soviet philosopher’s smoke exhalation they gathered in … Continue reading →