Liars' League

The Last Real Thing by MFC Feeley

Click for podcast (second story)

Read by James Price

The Last Real Thing or Why My Family Left for America

Aedan and Bartley ate their fill; I’d been shorted for laziness. As further punishment, Mother sent me to gather peat alone.

There I spied the soldiers. Preferring dreams to drudgery, I decided to join them.

I’d be a cook’s apprentice with the job of tasting and eating. They’d raise me to fight. I’d come back a leader. I’d conquer Ireland, but once my mother recognized me and apologized for withholding the fish, I’d have my army free everyone. Then we would conquer England!

In dreaming this, I’d come near their camp and, as the speech you’ve practiced flees once you catch the pretty girl’s eye, I lost my resolve. I couldn’t address the soldiers; I didn’t even know their language.

Losers by Nicolas Ridley

Click for podcast (last story)

Read by Will Goodhand

I open my eyes. Spears of afternoon sunlight stream through the window. Crumpled sheets. Puckered pillows. Yes, I think. I remember where I am.

—Seven letters, says Arianna. First letter ‘c’. Third letter ‘c’. Fourth letter ‘k’.

I prop myself up on one elbow. —‘Cock’ something, I say. ‘Cockeye’? ‘Cockpit’?

She shakes her head.

—‘Cocksure’?

—Seven letters.

—Oh, yes.

—Seventh letter ‘d’.

She’s sitting at her dressing-table, wrapped in a cream bath towel, the newspaper folded on her knee, chewing her pencil. This is Arianna. She is not a cosy lover. She has no patience with post-coital clinging.

Mandatory Meeting for Museum Guards ... by Rachel Karyo

Click for podcast (6th story)

Read by Keleigh Wolf

Mandatory Meeting for Museum Guards Before The VIP & Members' Exhibition Opening Reception

The gallery will be dark, and it may be difficult to see. It is imperative that you keep the floor dry. A few visitors will ask about these paintings hanging on the walls. Beautiful, aren’t they? Both visually and thematically complex. Gaze at them too long, you’ll lose your mind. For your own safety, don’t stare at the artworks, but let the visitors look wherever they please. We’re guards, not Surgeons General, and the last thing this institution needs is additional litigation.

Blowtorch, eyes on me.

Any questions?

Birthday Event: Tuesday 10th April - Small & Beautiful Flash Fiction

From action heroes to Irish farmers, murderers to museum guards, via cuckolds, crosswords, paint colours, relationship accelerants and a man who starts growing balloons all over his body, we read ten wild, weird and wonderful flash fiction stories at our birthday special* on Tuesday 10th April (click for Facebook event link). 

Here's the YouTube playlist of all the stories from the night - enjoy! 

Small & Beautiful Videos

Podcast & story texts will be coming soon - please keep checking back for updates!

 

WINNING STORIES for SMALL & BEAUTIFUL

 

Action by William Conway & Chiaroscuro by Richard A. Shury NEW AUTHORS, read by Rich Keeble
Lighter than Air by Anton Rose & Mugged by Stephen Baily NEW AUTHOR, read by Miranda Harrison
Losers by Nicolas Ridley NEW AUTHOR read by Will Goodhand
Wine Frame of Mind by Joseph Francis & The Last Real Thing by MFC Feeley NEW AUTHORS read by James Price
24 Tiny Tales by Andreas Paraskevaides, read by Claire Lacey & Will Goodhand
Decluttering by Sue Smith, read by Claire Lacey
Mandatory Meeting for Museum Guards Before The VIP + Members' Exhibition Opening Reception by Rachel Karyo NEW AUTHOR, read by Keleigh Wolf

 

As always, doors open at 7pm and the show begins at 7.30. Drinks and food will be available at the bar, and the infamous interval quiz features fabulous free books to be won! There's no pre-booking, but tables for four or more can be reserved by calling 07808 939535.

The venue is the downstairs bar at:

The Phoenix pub
37 Cavendish Square 
London 
W1G 0PP

(The Phoenix is 5 minutes' walk from Oxford Circus tube station, which is on the Victoria, Bakerloo and Central lines. Map here)

*we're 11 this year, since you ask ...

Slide Show by Alan Graham

Slide Show MP3

Read by Gloria Sanders

The main lights go down and the projector whirs into life. “Are you ready?” my partner asks.

“Oh yes,” I grin excitedly and a button clicks on the laptop. Suddenly the white bedsheet that my partner has hung up as an improvised screen is filled with the first slide of a Powerpoint presentation. In big, bold, red letters it reads “St Valentine’s. A Day for Love”

There’s another quiet mouse click and a large question mark suddenly appears at the very end of that sentence. I “ooh” sarcastically as the presentation swiftly moves on to the next slide.

“Little is known about the actual St Valentine.” My sweetheart reads the slide’s text as it appears in bulletpoints in front of me. She’s donned her glasses and is clearly using her office voice. “Indeed, it is thought by some scholars that the person himself is an invention. The most likely candidate for the real life Valentine was a rather unremarkable bishop in the city of Terni in Italy. It seems that the one interesting thing he ever did was to get tortured and martyred by the Roman state. On February the fourteenth.”

Father Figure by J. A. Hopper

Father Figure MP3

Read by Rich Keeble

Emily wasn’t sure what first attracted her to him: perhaps it was the secure, well-paid job as an architect: perhaps his gentle, slightly pompous sense of humour. It could’ve been the way he was always getting into funny scrapes: nothing major, just falling into a bush or something, putting up a shelf wrong; the sort of thing that could happen to anyone, but which only endeared him to her more.

Was it his obvious love of the children, how effortlessly good he was with them, even when they were clearly driving him mad? She’d found it wincingly poignant when the kids baked him a cake because he had to go to work on his birthday. She’d sat there with actual tears in her eyes, worrying a discarded Heinz baby-biscuit between trembling fingers like a rosary. Nobody’d ever made her a cake when she had to work on her birthday, which was pretty much every year, and now Mark had finally pissed off back to his ex-wife, probably nobody would. 

Three Months by Caroline Hardman

Three Months MP3

Read by Clareine Cronin

My arrival was carefully planned. I wanted to slip into the church quietly, after most people had already arrived, but didn’t want to get there too late. So just to be safe I caught an early train then hung around in the station cafe for a while. As I entered the churchyard one of the ushers – no-one I recognised – came towards me.

“Bride or groom?” he asked as he handed me an order of service. The ribbon binding it was exactly the same shade of blue as his tie.

I paused for a moment. “Bride,” I told him. If anyone asked, I could always say there had been a mistake.

We entered the church together and both scanned the wooden pews. It was hard to see much – my eyes hadn't quite adjusted to the dim light – but it was obvious that one side of the church was much fuller than the other. 

“Would you mind sitting on the groom’s side? Space is tight and since you’re on your own …”

Tasting the Rainbow by Alejandra Zannier

Tasting the Rainbow MP3

Read by Keleigh Wolf

PART 1. MOIRA

In the very last house on the very last street of a very small town lived a woman named Moira Sinclair. The house, once as nondescript as a house can be, had gained notoriety after Moira moved in. The locals (not so fondly) referred to it as the ‘house of black and black’. In a sea of candy-coloured picket fences, flowery bushes and even a red awning or two, Moira’s house stuck out like a sore thumb. A depressing, colourless sore thumb, that is. At the time of the sale, the house – neglected for years by the former owner – was in dire need of a new coat of paint; but to everyone’s chagrin, Moira decided to paint it in shades of black and blacker black.

Moira, as far as her appearance was concerned, was a person of monochromatic inclinations. She highlighted her paper-white skin with charcoal rouge and smoky eyes that went just right with her jet-black hair, and a wardrobe which could only be described as: ‘the coal collection’. But contrary to popular belief, Moira wasn’t a morose person obsessed with death. She was, simply, colourblind.

A Kiss A Day by Liam Hogan

A Kiss A Day MP3

Read by Sophie Morris-Sheppard

“Gis a kiss!” the third of the trio of dinner jackets hollers as I pass. I pause, my stiletto staccato silenced. Pause and turn.

I’d ignored the wolf whistle from the shortest of them, hair thinning, face gleaming with an alcoholic sweat despite the cold, dress shirt open at the neck to reveal, of all things, a vest. Gave a small smile at the caddish “Hello!” more for the nostalgic echo it inspired than because of the easy-on-the-eye black guy who probably doesn’t know who Terry Thomas is. Was.

They’re staring back at me, these three over-dressed goons, the Northerner to the fore, half surprised I’ve stopped, half expectant. Expecting what? A put down? A casually thrown expletive? It’s more than a month after Christmas, New Year is a distant memory. Why the monkey suits? Do they work for some company saving money by having their annual bash in the cold, grey beginnings of the year? Or perhaps they’ve been to some industry award ceremony, the free alcohol cutting through the tedium of the speeches, before continuing on at a pub that doesn’t allow vaping, forcing them outside to ogle girls walking by?

The Tell-Tale Art by Andreas Paraskevaides

The Tell-Tale Art MP3

Read by David Mildon

Gliding, paper-thin, through the spaces between raindrops. Sliding, whisper-slim, through the folds of mental landscapes. Sustained by stolen memories. Nourished by fragments of self.

Antiquity’s legendary lost libraries would only contain a sliver of the knowledge we possess. Our halls of records are made of living recollections and life-altering sensations. The constantly reworked landmarks in the road map of the soul. That first playful stare. His lips on your neck. The deathbed's trivialities. The moment of unexpected triumph. The comforting trauma. What gets you out of bed. What needed to be said.  All gone. All ours. You'll forget so we'll remember.

Let us show you some of our treasured possessions:

Our latest event: Tuesday 13th February, KISS & TELL for Valentine's Eve

From stolen kisses to cartoon crushes, telltale spirits to synaesthetic lovers, via vengeful exes and Powerpoint presentations we showcased tales of lust, romance & betrayal in our dirt-dishing Valentine's special - and our first event of 2018 - on Tuesday 13th February (click here for videos of all the stories.)  

Forget the pink roses as our actors bared their hearts (and more) for just £5 on the door, which includes a programme, entry to our saucy book quiz, and of course all the Lovehearts you can eat. (And if you’re single, just tell us your favourite literary character and we’ll find your perfect match - see below for more ...)

WINNING STORIES for KISS & TELL

 

Three Months by Caroline Hardman *NEW AUTHOR* - read by Clareine Cronin

Tasting the Rainbow by Alejandra Zannier *NEW AUTHOR* - read by Keleigh Wolf

Slide Show by Alan Graham - read by Gloria Sanders

A Kiss A Day by Liam Hogan - read by Sophie Morris-Sheppard

Father Figure by J. A. Hopper - read by Rich Keeble

The Tell-Tale Art by Andreas Paraskevaides - read by David Mildon

As always, doors open at 7pm and the show begins at 7.30. Seductive drinks and food will be available at the bar, and the infamous interval quiz will feature fabulous free books to be won! There's no pre-booking, but tables for fouror more can be reserved by calling 07808 939535.

NEW for 2018! #LoveLit Blind Date

Ever wondered if Lizzie Bennet would hook up with Christian Grey? Then we’ve got something for you this Valentine’s eve! Our #LoveLit Blind Date is simple: just email liars@liarsleague.com (or tweet us @liarsleague, hashtag #LoveLit) with your name, age, preferred gender of date & the name of your favourite fictional character, and we’ll match you up with someone else’s favourite. Not only might you find the love of your life, you'll also get free sweeties and a night of brilliant stories to enjoy with your new squeeze into the bargain. (NB: you don't have to join in the blind date to come, it's just a service we're offering singles this month. As ever, anyone who loves stories is welcome.)

The venue is the downstairs bar at:
The Phoenix
37 Cavendish Square 
London 
W1G 0PP

(The Phoenix is 5 minutes' walk from Oxford Circus tube station, which is on the Victoria, Bakerloo and Central lines)
Map here

St John's, 23rd December - Forgiveness by Anna Savory

St John's - Forgiveness MP3

Read by Paul Clarke

Welcome. Welcome, everyone, to St John's. And, goodness, look at you all! It’s heartening, really it is, to see so many faces here tonight. If there’s one thing I’ve realised in the past few weeks it’s that there’s nothing like Christmas to wake that latent religious urge, which in many of you has lain dormant at all other points in the year. Why, only in September I was stood in the Bishop’s living room expressing doubts about our dwindling congregation, and what did he tell me? He told me to have a little faith.

‘Don’t worry, David,’ he said, like the Lord addressing Thomas ‘Don’t fear. Just you wait until midnight fucking mass, it’s like the bloody Hammersmith Apollo.’ Famously obscene our Bishop, one of his many charming quirks. But indeed, how right he was! Attendance tonight is gratifying and I can only assume it signals a sea-change in the spiritual direction of this parish, which I trust will continue long, long into the new year.

It Never Snows at Christmas by Peter Higgins

It Never Snows at Christmas MP3

Read by Gloria Sanders

‘Every year, she comes, and every year it’s the same.  “Have you been on holiday, Laura?”  “Yes. Greece, actually.”  “Greece?  Really?”.’

‘Esme.’

‘“Oh, and I’ve brought you a bottle of Greek wine.”  “Oh, Laura, you shouldn’t have.”’

‘Phoebe!’

‘It tastes like wee.’

‘How would you know?’

‘Girls, please stop bickering, please.  Greek wine does not taste like wee.’

Flitter by Emma Hutton

Flitter MP3

Read by Annalie Wilson

Maggie didn’t think the snowman would punch back. The others hadn’t. Their heads had just rolled off and landed with a thud that made her hate the night a little less. But he landed a hook on the jaw that sent her body to the ground.  

‘Weren’t expecting that, were you?’

‘Jesus!’ 

‘Nope. Not Jesus.’

She stared up at two lumps of coal and clicked her jaw back into place.

Strange Heart by Jean Rover

Strange Heart MP3

Read by Max Berendt

For the most part, Dave kept his mother in his closet except on her birthday when he would set her on the fireplace mantel so she could get some sun.

Now Miriam, his sister, was going to spoil all that.

For Dave, a mild-mannered, bespectacled high school history teacher, life was going along at an even pace. Then, he met Sharon. Last month, he turned forty and planned to marry her in December.

That’s when Miriam had jumped in. “It’s time,” she announced in her matter-of-fact way via a telephone call from her condo in the Deep South. “No bride in her right mind wants her mother-in-law’s ashes hanging around, especially at Christmas.”

The Corollary Museum by Joel Blackledge

The Corollary Museum MP3

Read by Louisa Gummer (MVP Acting, 2017)

Welcome. Gather round. Gather round, please. Good. Ahem.

If one person were to spend one minute looking at each item in the British Museum’s permanent collection, it would require a visit of 15 uninterrupted years. To do the same in the labyrinthine halls of The Corollary Museum would take almost a century.

But don’t worry - today I will show you just some of the Museum’s catalogue. Please stay together and don’t touch the items. If you have a question then please speak loudly, I’m older than I look.

The Museum was founded by Porfirio Maldonado Jambrina, to house the private collection of objects he acquired on his extraordinary travels. How can one man have collected so much?

The Tale of Sylvie Weir by Victoria Finan

The Tale of Sylvie Weir MP3

Read by Claire Lacey

Did you ever hear the tale of the Weir twins? It was my mam who brought them into this world, back in 1900, when the old Queen were still alive. I were nowt but a lass myself, but Mam had already started taking me with her when the babbies came, to make up the hot water and to shout glad tidings to the dad, if he weren’t already half sozzled by the time baby’s head had crowned.

Of course, this time, what with it being Christmas Eve, it wasn’t just Mr Weir who were out at the pub, but Doctor Maury too. So when Mam shouted at me to run out and fetch the good doctor, I knew as I had a heck of a walk ahead of me, a mile and a half at least and that was before you even thought about the snow.

But I set off at quick speed, making out in the cold with nowt but a candle-lamp that quickly blew out at the first hint of a snowflake. By, but there weren’t roads then like there are now, I tell thee! Just cold, hard fields and me shoes with holes in the sole, but I made it to the Crown at last, though it felt fair like me hands were going to drop off.

Burning the Cat by Duncan Grimes

Burning the Cat MP3

Read by Alex Woodhall

Since Danny came out as gay six months ago his older sister Jane had shown more interest in spending him with him, like he was now a real person who could add some genuine value to her life. Danny felt their boundaries change almost overnight, as Jane shared more and more of her personal life with him. Her decision to dump Graham was just one of the things she shared.

“I feel I’ve tried everything,” she’d said.

“Tried everything after nine months?” Danny asked.

“Yeah, I think so,” Jane paused, pretending that his comment made her consider something then concluded, “he’s been leaving more and more of his stuff around the flat, and today he said he wants to move in. I think living together is one thing I don’t need to try with that boy.” 

The Beijing by Ataya Kanji

The Beijing MP3

Read by Keleigh Wolf

We both loved to eat there, at The Beijing. It was close to the house where my dad grew up, and where my grandmother still lived, the six months of the year she was not in India. When my dad realised it was only the two of us home that night, he packed me up in the car. The décor of the restaurant hadn’t changed since I was a child, or I hadn’t noticed. The same Lazy-Susans spinning, the same black chairs padded with dull red suede. I was using chopsticks to catch at imaginary food when our dishes and my usual arrived, the chili chicken with peanuts. I steadily piled it onto my plate. I was nearly eighteen, and chatted away about starting university. How my brother would follow soon after, the two of us being so close in age. When I looked up, I saw the tears in my father’s eyes.

“Dad?”

When I was ten, I tripped on my grandmother’s fireplace grate, rusted and heavy. Her sari draped over her La-Z-Boy as she told me off, gold bangles swinging over her plump wrists and the mangalsutra on her chest. I wouldn’t stop crying. She complained to anyone who would listen that I was too soft. Told them I must have inherited this from my mother’s side of the family. To be fair, at this point neither of us knew my big toe was actually broken.

The Brotherhood of One by Mark Sadler

Brotherhood of One MP3

Read by Paul Clarke

It would have been helpful in the telling of this tale, if I still possessed a photograph that was taken during the summer of 1845. In addition to visually illustrating the personalities involved, I imagine that it was among the first photographs ever to have been taken anywhere in the world, and so held value as a historical curiosity. Alas, it was claimed, along with many other valuables and keepsakes, by the inferno that destroyed the east wing of Roxburgh Hall; the contents of a roaring fireplace having collapsed into one of the drawing rooms, while the entire household was at dinner. 

The photograph was taken on the beach at Saundersfoot, on the coast of Wales. I will describe the image for you, as it appears in my memory: A row of three boys, aged between nine and eleven years, and dressed in pirate costumes, are charging with brandished swords through knee-high tidal surf, in the manner of buccaneers who have recently disembarked from their ship and have taken to the shore in search of plunder.