Welcome to Liars' League! Have a browse, check out our story and video archive, and why not come along to our Hallowe'en event, Death & Taxes, on Tuesday 10th October?
The address was ‘Cobbes, Fetters Lane’, but no one on Fetters Lane had heard of ‘Cobbes’, until at last I stopped a grey-haired old dear who was being pulled along by two eager Norfolk terriers.
‘The Cobbes? The loggers?’ she said.
‘The what?’
‘They sell firewood,’ she said.
Do they now? I thought.
She sucked her lips as if thinking something over. ‘Two hundred yards that way, there’s a cattle grid. Park there, cross the field and find the track going up the hill at the end. The Cobbes’ place is on the left, but they don’t take to visitors.’
I am sitting in front of the television, on my favourite chair. It’s been an uneventful day. Now, while I am sitting there, the doorbell rings. This in itself is unusual, because I’m not expecting anyone. I get up, walk towards the door and look through the fisheye. There’s a man outside, dressed in a blue uniform, almost like a postman’s uniform. He also has that typical unconcentrated ‘postman’ look on his face, like he’s already thinking about what he’ll do once the job is done. As I said, I’m not expecting anyone, so this is a bit of a surprise.
I open the door, and he gives me a flat look.
“Mr-” He glances at the pad he’s holding and says my name.
You're two days dead when they come and see me. They say they have to visit that early because if they're going to perform a Raising, they need to freeze the deceased as soon as possible. But it's not a coincidence that they're also visiting when the grief is still raw. It means they're more likely to get a signature, because at that point you’d agree to anything to bring the person back into your life.
They didn't have to apply that tactic to me, because I decided to sign as soon as you flat-lined. As soon as the hospital rang me and told me about your moment of inattention and that speeding car.
I’ve lived on Lonsdale Road my whole life. My brother lives across the street and three doors down, in the house that we both grew up in. When I married Harry I made sure we moved onto Lonsdale Road. It wouldn’t feel right to live anywhere else, and birds of a feather need to stick together, they say. But there’s been so much trouble these last years, to do with number thirty-seven. Then Harry let me down Christmas just gone, after the party at Devan’s, sucking on that young girl’s ear like some kind of pervert. He was drunk though, and thought it was all a laugh.
I’d thought it was all over.
A year before that they arrested Cresswell. They found all sorts in the basement, stuff that you wouldn’t want to think of. Not just bodies but bits of bodies. Some people said that they weren’t surprised; that Cresswell had one of those faces. Not like my Harry, who has the face of a naughty cherub.
“It’s because I’ve led a blameless life,” he says to me. He’s a cheeky one.
It has long been a problem that has plagued actuaries, politicians and indeed, prudent individuals such as yourselves. Planning, for an uncertain future. How much should you pay into your pension not knowing how long, or indeed, if you'll ever claim it? How much should you set aside for periods of unemployment? For healthcare issues? For assisted living?
Until now, this thorniest of problems has been tackled - but far from solved - by the crudest of tools, by the bluntest of instruments: statistics. Your life expectancy and other, similar data are simply averaged. Which means that the man who dies the morning of his retirement party is subsidising the woman celebrating her 100th birthday surrounded by friends and family and with a congratulatory message from the Queen.
Love them or loathe them, you have to live with them - so this month we've got six stories of siblings for you to squabble over, from hired brothers to tribes of mermaids, via stoned Georgians, ghostly twins, dark family secrets and a surprising sibling love-triangle ... click here for the Facebook event & let us know if we'll see you there!
WINNING STORIES for BROTHERS & SISTERS
The Beijing by Ataya Kanji NEW AUTHOR, read by Keleigh Wolf The Brotherhood of One by Mark Sadler NEW AUTHOR, read by Paul Clarke The Tale of Sylvie Weir by Victoria FinanNEW AUTHOR, read by Claire Lacey Burning the Cat by Duncan Grimes NEW AUTHOR, read by Alex Woodhall Sisterhood of the Sea by Alan Graham, read by Sophie Morris-Sheppard Darling Amelia by Sam Carter, read by Suzanne Goldberg
Plus! - Luxury handcrafted doublesided programmes! - Brand new books to win in our infamous, incomprehensible, impossible, irresistible book quiz! - Two for one on burgers all night! - Attractive and talented actors (and authors ... and Liars)
Tickets cost £5 on the door (cash only, tables can be reserved for parties of 5 or more by calling 07808 939535) and individual seating is first come first served - so best to get there a bit ahead of time if you want a good seat. (Accessibility note: access to the basement bar is via stairs - there's no lift, alas.)
The venue is downstairs at: The Phoenix 37 Cavendish Square London W1G 0PP
You've seen the pumpkin costumes at the checkouts, you've clocked the skull-shaped sweets in the shops ... Yes, Hallowe'en is coming - and to celebrate the terror and horror of the season, our October event theme isDEATH & TAXES(click for Facebook event).
Here's the podcast from the night, the videos are on YouTube and the story texts and author & actor bios lurk sinisterly here.
We selected six spine-shuddering stories to chill the very marrow of your bones: whether you're a bereaved lover or an insurance hawker, a hapless (soon to be limbless) couch potato or officially dead - from rural pig-farm to suburban slaughterhouse, there was no escape from Death & Taxes! The show took place on Tuesday 10th October, starting at 7.30pm (doors open at 7pm), and as ever it was a spookily cheap £5 admission. What's to be scared of?
The night will also feature our infamous book quiz, with some seriously dark novels as prizes, inflatable bats, orange tinsel and (of course) buckets of ghoulish candy. Tickets cost £5 on the door (cash only, no advance booking) and seating is unreserved - so best to get there a bit ahead of time if you want a good table. Accessibility note: access to the basement bar is via stairs - there's no lift, alas.
The venue is downstairs at: The Phoenix 37 Cavendish Square London W1G 0PP
"I was put on this planet ter bring happiness ter others, basically."
Nora is dragging her case through the dinky French airport, following a wolf. It's gazing out from Kiki’s fleecy back, above striding lime-green leopard print legs. Kiki is the bringer of happiness.
Nora feels she’s only been clinging onto adult life with her fingernails for a while now. Having exhausted another boss, another man, another landlord in quick succession, she’s decided it’s time for a little soul searching. It turned out that what her friends termed eccentric or, more kindly, ’kooky’ didn’t cut it in your forties.
‘Rebalance your chakras, find wellness in French countryside’ the ad had said. Chakras? Never mind. 'Available all year round.' That clinched it. A retreat sounded positive and focused, the kind of thing a proper adult would do, instead of holing up in bed like a wounded animal.
Abby was feeling meh. There was no particular reason. Or rather, there were lots of little reasons which had all stuck together to create a sensation of overwhelming mehness.
She had stayed up too late playing Bejeweled Blitz and woken feeling slightly headachy. The milk in the fridge had turned sour. She was pretty sure Simon wasn't The One. It was raining. She’d waited to buy the blue jumpsuit in the sale and now they only had it in a size 10. She hadn't won the lottery. Again. And it really irritated her the way the superheroes cluttered up the coffee shop.
It had been such a lovely little independent. But now its character had changed completely, and everyone was too scared of the superheroes to complain. She would never have gone in if the milk hadn't been sour.
She tells him not to, but he even does it when they are fucking, which is horrible: the voices coming out of the closet, from up on the ceiling, from under the bed. He is looming over her with a letterbox grin and the voices are oozing out from between his teeth. She knees him in the ribs and he drops back with a gasp.
What’s the matter with you, he says, can’t you take a joke?
His voice, his ordinary voice, is flat and nasal — Essex or thereabouts — but at least his lips are moving. He rolls over and reaches for his cigarettes. He doesn’t offer them to her so she snatches the packet out of his hand. They lie side-by-side without speaking and the twin streams of smoke spiral upwards, like tendrils, without touching.
Two nuns come to sit with me today – prating and tutting though they have no power here. The younger one is kind enough. She is from the West herself and asks after my Lizzie. She looks after the orphan girls across in Stanhope St she tells me, and would be happy to have Lizzie among them to learn her her letters.
And if she’s an orphan does that mean I’m already dead?
She’s no answer to that. I ask her if she’s seen Lizzie today. Not yet, she says– they will visit the children’s cells before they go if time allows it. I hope to God they’re feeding her all right or else it’s all for nothing in the end. Her bones like a bird when last I held her. The childer used to get the same ration as the rest of us but Matron says they’ve put a stop to that now for they were cutting up and creating riots all over the city just to get in here.
When my sister Sonia called round unexpectedly at 2pm, I was still wearing my Bayeux Tapestry bathrobe. While I was explaining to her the origin of its name – that is, each stain or object recounted an episode in the last few months: the gravy blob from a TV dinner, for instance, or the encrusted cornflake from a late-night snack – she interrupted me. When was the last time I’d had a conversation with anyone? she asked. I had to think about that. Did the bin men count? I said.
My guess is, it was this encounter that prompted her to send me the book that arrived a few days later. Seeking Enlightenment, Finding Jesus, was its title. Sonia thinks that Jesus can solve anything, even gravy blobs and encrusted cornflakes. I have nothing against Jesus; in fact, in my youth, before I got distracted by field sports and boys, he and I were on fairly intimate terms. It was just that now I was officially an adult, we had drifted some distance apart.
Our female-focused September event, Women & Girls (click for Facebook event), is a tasty selection of brand new short fiction by and about women (and girls), for everyone to enjoy. The show is on Tuesday 12th September, starting at 7.30pm (doors open at 7pm), when the winning stories will be performed by our marvellous Liars' League actresses.
The six chosen pieces feature superhero(in)es, ventriloquists, obsession, depression, Victorian prisoners, charismatic polygamists, West Midlands spiritual healers, and all manner of enticing stuff besides ...
WOMEN & GIRLS WINNING STORIES
Summer Season by Sally SysonNEW AUTHOR, read by Charlotte Worthing
The night will also feature our infamous book quiz (with female-authored novels as prizes #readwomen) and free sweets, just because. Tickets cost £5 on the door (cash only, no advance booking) and seating is unreserved - so it's a good idea to get there a bit ahead of time if you want a good table. Accessibility note: access to the basement bar is via stairs - there's no lift, alas.
The venue is downstairs at: The Phoenix 37 Cavendish Square London W1G 0PP
P.S. We got an amazing number of submissions for this theme - more than double our usual amount - so if we get a good turnout at the event we may make Women & Girls a regular theme. If you think this is a great idea, please do come along, bring your friends and tell everyone you know, of any and every gender, about it. Ta!
After a truly hard-fought contest and some great performances of our three finalists, MUSTARD MOON by Sarah Evans was announced as the first prize winner on the night of the Heads & Tails event, Tuesday 11th July. Here's actor Rich Keeble reading the hell out of her wonderful story.
(P.S. Keep watching to see our two superb (and very different!) runners-up, DAY OF SKULLS by Simon Sylvester, read by Gabriel Moreno, and The Special Circumstances of Mr Oakeshott by Paul Currion, read by Gloria Sanders.
Thanks again to all our talented actors and authors, and to everyone who entered the competition. We really enjoyed reading your work.
Our judges have deliberated, cogitated and digested, and would like to offer their hearty congratulations to the authors of the top three stories named (in no particular order) below!
The winning story will be revealed at the competition event on Tuesday 11th July,starting at 7.30pm (doors open at 7pm), when it will be read alongside the two runners-up by our marvellous actors.Who will triumph? Will it be spectating skulls, wandering words, or OAPs with antlers? You'll have to come along to find out ... Click herefor the Facebook event and further details.
HEADS & TAILS COMPETITION: TOP THREE STORIES
Day of Skulls by Simon Sylvester
Mustard Moon by Sarah Evans
The Special Circumstances of Mr Oakeshott by Paul Currion
The night will also feature an interview with the winning author(s) by Rupert Dastur of our competition partners Theshortstory.co.uk, plus our usual book quiz and loads of Jelly Babies. Tickets cost £5 on the door (cash only, no advance booking) and seating is unreserved - so it's a good idea to get there a bit ahead of time if you want a good table. Accessibility note: access to the basement bar is via stairs - there's no lift, alas.
The venue is downstairs at: The Phoenix 37 Cavendish Square London W1G 0PP
P.S. Because they were so good, we've decided to award the shortlisted authors of the three stories below consolatory prizes of free entry to the event, plus a Liars' League anthology of their choice: we hope to see them - and you - on Tuesday 11th!
He was a very modern genie. Once he’d recovered from the psychic shock of being wrenched from perpetual slumber in the astral realm, he beheld himself naked and dressed in the manner of the century he found himself in. He chose a well-cut cream linen suit (it was summer), brogues, a plum tie, a pink silk handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket. And he declared himself to be the slave of one Tyrell Morris, a customer service adviser at Vodafone UK.
Tyrell – shocked, fearful, lying in the wreckage of his office chair – had just received an email requesting that all employees change their computer passwords because of an increased risk of hacking. The IT department insisted that new passwords should be a long sequence of unrelated letters, numbers and symbols.
As Tyrell mouthed the last letter of his new password, the genie had exploded into being like a bubble popping but backwards, and informed Tyrell that what he’d just said constituted the genie’s ancient and irrevocable name, and therefore the genie was formally summoned. As Tyrell’s slave, the genie would answer a single question. It could be anything that Tyrell wanted, and the genie would answer immediately and truthfully.
The day had got off to a poor start. Jim had taken three nuisance calls by ten o’clock. To the first caller he had simply said, no thanks, and put down the phone. To the second he had responded to the enquiry, how are you today, sir? with the reply, I’m fine, how are you? And Mark, who had introduced himself at the other end of the line, had said that he was fine too. That’s about it then, Jim had told him. I don’t think we have anything more to say. Then he’d put the phone down. His wife had called down from upstairs. I like that one!
When Jasmine (or was it Jamsin? he didn’t quite catch the name) – when she rang, on behalf of somebody offering solar solutions, he was poised to go off on a rant, along the lines of, did I ask you to call? No I did not! It was the regular reply of a near neighbour, and always seemed to leave her in a better mood, and Jim had been keeping it in reserve for when he was really pissed off. But something, whether or not it was the timbre of Jasmine’s voice is hard to say, something made him pause, and a feeling of goodwill flooded into him. Cold calling is a lousy job. He pictured her in headphones in a little booth, far, far away, doing what she had to do to make a living.
When anyone asked Frank whether he was counting the days to retirement he would answer not with a smile or a yes but with a number. No countdown had ever excited him more and each morning he gleefully crossed another day off the list he kept in his diary. It was with a similar satisfaction that he crossed things off another list that he kept in his diary – Things I Will Never Have To Do Again.
Today Frank was looking forward to crossing one thing in particular off this list. Invigilation. Never again would he walk up and down those aisles hoping his shoes didn’t squeak and that he didn’t let slip an accidental fart. Never again would he furnish exam candidates with extra paper or accompany them to the toilet. Never again would he place exam papers on desks or wait patiently at the end while a candidate fiddled with a treasury tag. Today was the day of Frank’s Last Invigilation.
“The time is 9.15,” boomed the exams officer, “and you may begin.”
‘Shut yer fat face, ya tosser, I’d rather be thick than ugly.’
Year 9 at a momentary lull in their usual arsey-ness. I’m struggling between the tipped-back chairs, desperate to prove to the deputy head at the side of my classroom that I am a good teacher and that none of this will phase me. My hips and thighs are bruised. Trousers grown baggy over the past month threaten to fall down.
I trip over bags and PE kits, almost over-balance onto Baz’s head. A small prayer to the-nothing-above-or-below and I manage to hip-twist hard and step into my balance again. I’ve glanced at Baz’s ePortal records, and to say that the extensive notes are alarming is an understatement. Disturbing mutters in the staff toilets confirm my fear of this kid. Maybe I should have fallen on him, taken a couple of head shots, compensation package and early retirement. Dammit, opportunity missed. I reach the table, tripping over another boundary wall of PE kits and malicious destruction of school supplies.
Thanks to our faithful fans' nominations we were shortlisted (along with four other eminent & excellent events) in the Best Regular Spoken Word Night category at the Saboteur Awards 2016! We didn't win (though congrats to Manchester's Bad Language, who did) but we certainly enjoyed the awards party cocktails ...
INTERVIEW ON THE STATE OF THE ARTS
In celebration of our one hundredth event, the fine folks over at thestateofthearts.co.uk interviewed us about the secret of Liars' League's longevity, here.
BEST REGULAR SPOKEN WORD NIGHT AT SABOTEUR AWARDS
We got nominated, we canvassed, we voted, we hoped, we prayed. Then we went down to Oxford - along with our publishing partners Arachne Press - for the Saboteur Awards and came away with a gong each! We won Best Regular Spoken Word Night 2014 and Weird Lies won Best Anthology.
LL IN GUARDIAN TOP TEN
Liars' League is one of The Guardian's 10 Great Storytelling Nights, according to the paper's go-out-and-have-fun Do Something supplement, that is. And they should know. The article is here and mentions several other live lit events well worth checking out.
ARTICLE ABOUT US IN WORDSWITHJAM
Journalist Catriona Troth came along to our Twist & Turn night, reviewed it and interviewed Katy, Liam, Cliff and author/actor Carrie. See what she said in her article for WordsWithJam here.
BUY OUR AUTHORS' BOOKS!
Longtime contributors Niall Boyce, Jonathan Pinnock & Richard Smyth all have books out which you'd be well advised to buy, then read, then buy for others. All genres are catered for, from novels (Niall's Veronica Britton) and short stories (Jonathan's Dot Dash) to nonfiction (Richard's Bumfodder)
KATY LIAR'S DEBUT NOVEL
Liar Katy Darby's debut novel, a Victorian drama called The Unpierced Heart (previously titled The Whores' Asylum) is now out in Penguin paperback. It's had nice reviews in The Independent on Sunday, Sunday Times & Metro (4*).
OUR INTERVIEW WITH ANNEXE MAG!
They came, they saw, they asked us a bunch of interesting questions. Interview by Nick of Annexe Magazine with Katy of LL: here
Flambard Press Publishers of Courttia Newland's short story collection "A Book of Blues", from which we read Gone Away Boy in April 2011.
Granta A great magazine full of new writing by established and up-and-coming authors.
Literary Death Match Watch blood spill and saliva fly, as writers fight for the LDM crown by reading their work and performing ridiculous tasks.
Sabotage Reviews An excellent review site which highlights the best of indie literature - poetry, prose and spoken word. They gave us an award, doncherknow?
ShortStops A fantastically useful site run by author Tania Hershman which lists opportunities for short story writers, from magazines to prizes to live events.
