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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 that time our experience with death was very limited Sometimes someone’s grandfather or grandmother would die, like a domino falling when its turn comes at last, but still we all had at least two or three grandparents living Some grandparents – in particular, some grandmothers – threw themselves off their balconies This happened with a certain frequency; I have since asked myself if it was something peculiar to that neighbourhood or period in time, a coincidence, or else some fault in my memory Whatever it was, it happened, or at least I remember that it happened We would be playing peacefully in the street when first the rumours and then, later, the cries reached us: the grandmother of we-didn’t-know-who had thrown herself from a fourth, a fifth, a tenth floor, always from enough of a height to kill her The apartments – council blocks of exposed brick – were high and had narrow balconies cluttered with junk: cleaning supplies, birdless birdcages, plantless plant pots, and old, dirty mattresses were visible Some were enclosed by a barrier of green glass, but this, evidently, didn’t stop the old women perching on the edge and throwing themselves off into the void It was like a plague Five or six flung themselves off in the space of just a couple of years; once we even saw, from afar, a body crumpled on the pavement, light as a rag, through the police cordon and the neighbours surrounding it There was nothing to stop us getting nearer, except perhaps fear and revulsion; nothing prevented us, either, from inventing perverse fantasies about the possibility of a murder – someone pushed her, said one; they did it to get the inheritance, another added, repeating ideas from TV movies; us, children of a neighbourhood where the grandmothers did not have nor ever had an inheritance   The grandparents died, but for us life had no limit What concept could a child have, after all, of death? Or, rather, what concept could a child have of death in a country free of war or conflict, in an average city in

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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feature

Issue No. 1

Ninety-Nine, One Hundred

Tess Little

feature

Issue No. 1

Sitting at a British Library desk in July 2006, a reader carefully consulted the fraying pages of A Relation...

feature

May 2014

How Imagination Remembers

Maria Fusco

feature

May 2014

How imagination remembers is twofold, an enfolded act of greed and ingenuity. I believe these impulses to be linked...

Interview

February 2014

Interview with Patrick Keiller

David Anderson

Interview

February 2014

Patrick Keiller, an architect ‘diverted’ into making films, is principally known for his Robinson series, which began with  London (1994)...

 

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