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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...

Jamie sat alone at the edge of the dance floor and wondered how long it would be until Nigel arrived The band had been upping the tempo as the night wore on, keeping pace with the room’s rising alcohol level, and even the dance-shy souls were shaking their limbs by the speakers Jamie closed his eyes and the room pulled into focus To the left, his uncle was regurgitating insights from the morning’s sports pages; Tom, one of his distant relations, was attempting to seduce a girl with jokes about statutory rape; and somewhere near the bar his sister was giggling uncontrollably A throat was cleared in front of him, and he opened his eyes   There, wearing the same old double-breasted suit as always, was Nigel Jamie looked up at his shapeless face, with its doughy peaks and sallow creases His skin was so speckled and drawn it looked photocopied   ‘Hullo James,’ said Nigel A half-chewed canapé churned in his parted lips ‘Good spread’ He flicked a tartlet into his mouth and glanced at the low tables ‘Nice venue’   ‘It’s alright,’ Jamie said He glanced at his watch Nigel had said he would arrive before midnight   ‘The band are pretty good’ Nigel’s knee began to jostle in time with the snare ‘That’s real music, that Course you’re in to all that mindless drug music Umph umph umph Mind if I sit down? I’ll just take that chair Or is it a stool? I never can tell with this modern shit’ Nigel slumped down with a sigh ‘Been chasing the girls much? I’d say you’re not prohibitively ugly’   ‘So where are we going?’ Jamie asked   ‘Who said I was taking you anywhere?’   ‘I just…,’ Jamie began, looking puzzled ‘You want to talk? No weirdness?’   ‘An honest-to-goodness chat Is that too much to ask?’   Earlier that year, without ceremony, Jamie had passed into his twentieth year, but when he frowned he looked double that age His forehead bunched at the bridge of his nose, and there was weariness in the downturned mouth ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something,’ he said ‘About the presents’ He saw the shrouded heaps

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

April 2013

Towards White, 1975

Scott Morris

fiction

April 2013

In the morning, the square was white. Voula’s hair was white. A pigeon on a bronze horse shifted, sent...

Interview

Issue No. 9

Interview with Rebecca Solnit

Tess Thackara

Interview

Issue No. 9

Rebecca Solnit’s The Faraway Nearby, like many of her books and essays, is a tapestry of autobiographical narrative, environmental and...

poetry

June 2011

Malcolm Starke Died Today

Kit Buchan

poetry

June 2011

Malcolm Starke died today who rang us most nights so late that it could only be him. He’d been...

 

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