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Chris Newlove Horton
Chris Newlove Horton is a writer living in London.

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DATE NIGHT

Prize Entry

April 2016

Chris Newlove Horton

Prize Entry

April 2016

He said, ‘Tell me about yourself.’ He said, ‘Tell me about you.’ He said, ‘Tell me everything. I’m interested.’ He said, ‘I want to...

fiction

April 2015

Heavy

Chris Newlove Horton

fiction

April 2015

It is a two lane road somewhere in North America. The car is pulled onto the shoulder with the...

At the Konditorei   Close, warm, and humming with the relaxed sounds of post- midday Kaffee-Kuchen The  cakes are modestly presented in a glass cabinet: stripes of sponge alternate with chocolate cream; globes of mango gleam on mousse Oblongs of raspberry and banana jelly Older couples sit at round tables, sip kaffee and lift cake-cream inch-by-inch to mouths They’re conscious not to eat too quickly, so as to avoid nausea, and ensure instead continued pure delight A little nothing, pleasant chat; a few read the papers   Our protagonist has the table by the window, hung with a doily curtain There’s a cigarette smoking itself out in his thrown- away left hand; his closed right one rests on the open pages of an empty notepad                             See (1)   Florian was walking with his schnauzer, Bernie, along the far shore of the See He preferred this less trodden, further side because it meant he had a good view of the town, busy and self-important on that nearer side And he liked being closer to the great faces of mountains, which jacked themselves right up hard, grey and granular, above all the people’s things and houses   His head was clear and only had in it air, Bernie running and her fetching the next stick, and the soft-firm earth and grass under their feet   They stopped on the path to look over the See Its surface was soft as a lady’s undergarment You could place your finger in its surface and feel it drop under, without resistance Today’s winter water had black, mirrored surfaces; nothing could be seen beneath them   Then Florian’s eye settles on something, as a fisherman focuses on the red point at the end of his line in the water His eyes are drawing an outline – round the objects he can see They are – this shape – like this – two rectangles bobbing among some dead black stalks The black of the rectangles is greyer than the See’s black Their sheen is harder than the water’s; more moulded, less easy to penetrate                                 At the Pension   The protagonist arrives at the pension This is situated in the village adjoining the town, where slopes are levelled in tiers to make space for the houses There are broad,

Contributor

August 2014

Chris Newlove Horton

Contributor

August 2014

Chris Newlove Horton is a writer living in London.

James Richards: Not Blacking Out...

Art

December 2011

Chris Newlove Horton

Art

December 2011

Artist James Richards appropriates audio-visual material gathered from a range of sources, which he then edits into elaborate, fragmented collages.   But whereas his...

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fiction

Issue No. 1

From the Town

Desmond Hogan

fiction

Issue No. 1

In the grape hyacinth blue jersey – yellow strip at V-neck, blue tie, navy trousers of Kinsale Community School,...

Art

November 2013

The Past is a Foreign Country

Natasha Hoare

Art

November 2013

‘The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.’ The immortal first line to L. P. Hartley’s...

Prize Entry

April 2017

Two Adventures

Ari Braverman

Prize Entry

April 2017

I. A Cosmopolitan Avenue   …where a girl pretends the whole city is dead. She is too old for...

 

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