Liars' League

Trixie's Treat by Diane Payne

Read by Sophie Morris-Sheppard

“Trix,” I repeat, eyeing the potion I’ve just mixed up from the nameless dregs of our drinks cabinet, “do you really think this is a good idea?”

She rolls her eyes and waves her green nails whatever. She’s wearing yellow cat contact lenses and her eye makeup is more panda than Wanda (her sexy witch character) but the effect’s actually quite creepy, like she’s possessed. She never does anything by halves, my housemate. Other accessories include besom broomstick, gnarled ebony wand, and a velvet corset so tight she’s in constant danger of disappearing behind her own boobs.

“Jeez, Dr Buzzkill,” says Trixie, “just down it will you? It can’t actually kill us.”

“No,” I say doubtfully, “I mean, probably not …”

Hallowe'en event: TRICK & TREAT, Tuesday 9th October

Interested in our next event? It's Naughty & Nice for Christmas on Tuesday 11th December - more info here. 

BEWARE!

For on Hallowe'en, the dead crawl from their coffins, the witches celebrate their unholy Sabbath, and the veil 'twixt the worlds of flesh and spirit begins to fray! However, on Tuesday October 9th at our pre-Halloween event Trick & Treat, (click for the YouTube playlist of all the story videos) we just scared the pants off you with a pumpkinful of twisted, terrifying, and always entertaining short stories. And it only cost a fiver. It's literally the cheapest thrill in the West End. 

Those who braved our Trick & Treat night encountered monsters in the cupboard, death up a ginnel, the dread Castle Woebetide, four feral sisters, Wanda the Witch Wench, and even Death himself, all lurking in the shadow-haunted Pit of Terror (A.K.A the Phoenix's basement bar) ... 

(P.S. If you want to submit a story for December or come along to the next event, see here for our next deadline & event.) 

WINNING STORIES for TRICK & TREAT 

Hide. Go Seek. by Dan Howarth, read by Math Jones

Trixie's Treat by Diane Payne, read by Sophie Morris-Sheppard 

Another Mother by Michael Harris Cohen, read by Miranda Harrison

Rounds by Anna Savory, read by Will Teller

The Dungeon Master's Guide by Rhys Timson, read by David Mildon

Strawberry Creams by Victoria Finan, read by Margaret Ashley

As usual, doors open at 7pm for a 7.30 start and tickets are £5 on the door (cash only, sorry, but there is a cashpoint across the street). Drinks and food will be available at the bar, though there are also free spooky sweets and the infamous interval quiz features fabulously frightening 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

Accessibility note: Access to the basement is via stairs: there is no lift, sadly. 

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

How to be Unemployed by Alice Franklin

Read by Lois Tucker

(For the full podcast of the night, please click here.)

1. Become unemployed

For the past three months, there have been clues you weren’t fitting in. They didn’t like it when you corrected their grammar. They didn’t like it when you removed every adjective from that guy’s manuscript. They didn’t like it when you reduced that novel of eighty thousand words to just one side of double-spaced A4.

“It’s not that you’re not taking the job seriously,” your boss tells you. “In fact, quite the opposite.”

You know where this is going. Her tone of voice is different now. So, before she can say the words “let you go” or “call it a day”, you stand up, go to your desk, and pack your things with such haste that you leave behind some tea, a mug, and a pen.

Outside, it seems unclear whether you have just quit or just been fired, but it hardly matters, because either way, you’re unemployed.

Apotheosis of Maya and Bibi by Rebecca Skipwith

Read by Susan Moisan

(For the full podcast of the night, please click here.)

The third text buzzes at Maya’s hip as she pulls into Chieveley Services. She’s no intention of reading it, but it presses upon her anyway – a little extra tightness in the chest. In the back seat, Bibi is crying in that lacklustre way she has when she’s forgotten what exactly needed protesting, but the protest is the point and she must go on with it.

Maya cruises the car park with care. Families pop out into the little gaps between cars, and parents dart for straying toddlers. It’s tricky negotiating the tight corners and the little human hazards in his Audi, which handles like a boat with no edges.

“Yellow car,” says Bibi mournfully, pausing the tears.

Homework by Anna Savory

Read by Gloria Sanders

(For the full podcast of the night, please click here)

Dear Jennifer,

Hello, you fabulous little bitch. It’s me, by which I mean you, writing to you, by which I mean me, from a desk in the future and/or present. How are you? Small? Wide-eyed and innocent? Gifted and talented? I thought so.

I don't know what the point of this is but I’ve been told to question myself so … on this side of the psychological divide I’m enjoying a flat white, are you enjoying your daily sugar hit? Are you still in love with Misty from Pokemon? Are you still carrying that inflatable crocodile around? I’d forgotten it was your constant companion, but now I think about it, that seems psychologically pertinent. Perhaps you could write a note on your hand reminding you to mention it to Dr Newman in twenty years' time.

I don't know if you question your finances much there in the mid 90s, but for future reference you earn £7.50 an hour here in the dystopian hellscape of 2018. You’ve blocked out 30 minutes of that precious time to write a letter to your past self and you’ve paid a professional £80 for the privilege. So have a think about that, and try not to go mental later on.

Trouble at the Uptown Espresso by Kristin King

Read by Sarah Gain

(For the full podcast of the night, please click here)

I’m not sure what possessed me the other day at the Uptown Espresso, but I think it was my baby girl. Separation is hard on her, and usually she tugs so hard that I leave part of myself with her. I walk around in a fog while she cries and cries. This time the opposite must have happened: she must have left a part of herself with me.

So I was standing in line waiting for a single tall Americano when I saw a huge container of Hershey’s Chocolate Syrup. I felt compelled to press on the squirter. Lovely glops of brown chocolate started splashing on the counter! When I stuck my hand in the chocolate and smeared it around, the resulting patterns were gorgeous. I put my hand in my mouth (Wow!) and then smeared it around my forehead and in my hair.  Someone started shouting, and they sure sounded angry, but the Hershey’s syrup was way more interesting.

Then somebody took hold of me, pulled me away, sat me down at a table, and started to play tug-of-war with some napkins, swiping at my face.  Fun, fun, fun! But gradually, I collected myself.  What had gotten into me?

Tree House Date by S. Soliar

Read by Shin-Fei Chen

(For the full podcast of the night, please click here)

Lay it square in the daylight, Jodie, put your face right against the window so he can see you in all your puppy-fat glory. Here’s me: a child. You’d think some of these guys would be put off, but four weeks and not a single john who is. One day I’ll meet a man who goes white in the face over the idea. I’ll cuff him to me and we’ll do a drive-thru in Vegas. For that I have to wait four years. That’s funny, isn’t it? Here I am doing what I’m doing, but I’ve got to wait four years to get married. This one’s looking at me like he just got a promotion.

Where can we go? Mr. Mumbles, is it? As though if he’s quiet enough he won’t have to hear himself say it.

You’re getting ahead. Leaning myself right through his window. Not much filling my tank top, hollow where a tit might one day be if I live that old, but for some of them, it’s what they like, right?

 

Women & Girls, Tuesday August 14th

On Tuesday August 14th, Liars' League proudly presented our annual soiree sorting the women from the girls, and telling stories from the other side of the gender divide ... (Click for Facebook event - and here for details of our next deadline and event.) 

From truant wives to sarky schoolgirls, pyromaniac editors to teenage hookers via tantruming mums, we showcased the best of female-focused fiction.

WINNING STORIES for WOMEN & GIRLS

Trouble at the Uptown Espresso by Kristin King *NEW AUTHOR* - read by Sarah Gain
Tree House Date by S. Soliar *NEW AUTHOR* - read by Shin-Fei Chen
How to be Unemployed by Alice Franklin *NEW AUTHOR* - read by Lois Tucker
Apotheosis of Maya and Bibi by Rebecca Skipwith - read by Susan Moisan
Homework by Anna Savory - read by Gloria Sanders

Doors open at 7pm for a 7.30 start and tickets are £5 on the door (cash only sorry, but there is a cashpoint across the street). Drinks and food will be available at the bar, though there are also free sweets and the infamous interval quiz features fabulous books to be won! (Seminal novels by women writers, this month). 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

Accessibility note: Access to the basement is via stairs: there is no lift, sadly. 

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

The Greatest Tiddlywinks Player in the Galaxy by Adam Lewis Smith

The Greatest Tiddlywinks Player MP3

Read by Gloria Sanders

As loud as the words on the poster were, it was his face that grabbed me: that of a plump-chinned, red-cheeked wizard with an open-tooth grin supporting a floor-brush moustache and eyes so wide and white they only needed wolves howling at them.

Beneath this expanse of face, two tiny hands sprayed a flurry of coloured discs while a pair of silhouetted spectators watched in Munch-esque disbelief. In tomato-red capitals, above the menagerie:

THE GREATEST TIDDLYWINK PLAYER IN THE GALAXY!

£2 A MATCH, £5 FOR BEST OF THREE!!

A Rearguard Action by Colin Adams

A Rearguard Action MP3

Read by Peter Doolan

My secondary school was a small Christian Brothers school in a suburb of South Dublin. There were two Irish teachers there. Mr Edward Lowry was a pugnacious, portly, pustulous git of a man.  Years of disillusionment and disappointment squatted on his shoulders slowing his gait to a malevolent saunter, like burger van on a drive-by.  He had hands like the blades of spades and under his oxter he routinely carried a rolled-up tabloid newspaper. The black ink from the paper and the pale white dust of the chalk formed demented yin-yang symbols on his palms. These palms we saw often- raised in anger slapping desks, students and books on tables.  Every inch of him carried the threat of violence and even though hitting students was banned in Ireland in 1982, Lowry had decided to take it under advisement.  Rumour had it that his brother was head of the union and so he was impossible to sack. 

Prince Harry's Last Hurrah by Quintin Forrest

Prince Harry's Last Hurrah MP3

Read by Alex Woodhall

On the morning of the wedding, I woke up in Claridge’s. Good old Claridge’s, they look after you there. Hopefully. Today, I was going to be on telly in front of an audience of millions. My biggest crowd since Mother's funeral. That unforgettable day, seared into the hard-drive, however much I tried to blot it out. Often, admittedly, with some success, but it was looming back now. The trek on foot, halfway across London, as the Gen Pop followed, both in town and at home, the horse-drawn progress of a doomed princess. At least this time I'd be in the carriage, I supposed.

If I made it. Was I so mired in sin that I was going to disappoint? It seemed a distinct possibility. Where was everything? On Sky News, the Great British Public were queuing up outside the chapel - why? What were they hoping for? La Markle to arrive looking totally doable, in a long white dress. And for the H-Meister to show up minus his strides? Would the loathed public get their wish? Where were my trousers? The old soup and fish was laid out somewhere, surely, but where? Had I given it a test-run the night before, in front of the guys and the ... specialist courtesans Rafe knew from Babes of Mayfair? I had a horrible feeling that I probably had.

Literally having an existential crisis by Rushiv Nayee

Literally having an existential crisis MP3

Read by Nicholas Delvalle

I won’t take you back to the beginning. I don’t have the time. However, I will begin with some background – some insight into how things used to be, during what I, and others around me, considered my artistic apex.

I essentially found myself in the centre of things. A fundamental component. Not like AND or OR, though. I was different. I had spark. Edge. I frequented dinner parties in Chelsea, rooftop bars in Manhattan. I spent time backstage at fashion shows in Tokyo. You’d find me nestled snugly between sharp punchlines and popping up in fierce intellectual debate. I had it all.

I’d previously been relatively content in the background, just pottering about for a few hundred years. I’d watch from afar as every now and then colleagues would experience a surge in popularity and burst into the limelight. I never dreamt it would happen to me.  

Schmiedeleut's Play by Han Stickings Smith

Schmiedeleut's Play MP3

Read by Tony Bell

Schmiedeleut wrote a play, and I read it, and I copied it out for myself twelve times in a total of twenty-seven of my notebooks. Then I saw it performed on stage, and in the final act I jumped over the brass rail and I cracked my skull and my ribs when I hit and that’s why I’ve been plastered down here, I suppose.

The attendants, admittedly, are pleasant enough. The nurses bring me cake, which I can’t eat, and tea, which I never drank anyway. When their crests of smiling and chatter have rolled on, they clear the way for the doctors’ own rituals. These tend to involve a cold tube, my shaven nostrils, and a heavy liquid that may or may not contain the same recycled remnants of the surplus cake and tea. It smells the same, certainly, but then everything always does. The principal difficulty regarding the doctors and nurses is that they change in their faces every time they come, and, what’s more, that they all appear in essentially identical uniform. This brings a fresh ordeal each newly risen morning: that of calculating whether the bright-clad figure approaching is after my lips or my nose. (I can no longer count on waking in time to benefit from the rule that the nurses precede the doctors, unfortunately.)

A Beer in the Interval by Frances Salter

A Beer in the Interval MP3

Read by Louisa Gummer

It was the height of summer when the curate Gordon E. E. Garside unlocked the chancel safe of St Mark’s, Gloucestershire, and wrapped the communion silver in an anorak. He placed it in his backpack alongside a spare pair of underpants and a toothbrush. During the cycle from Berkshire to the Oxfordshire village of Adderbury, he stopped three times at local pubs to enjoy an ale, bought with small change from the parish collection box.

By the time he rang the bell of her house, his shirt and trousers were soaked. She spotted his red face through the keyhole with the sort of excitement that is close to fear.

“Gordon!” She wanted to put her arms around him, but found she could not.

“Hello! I would have rung ahead, but no idea where my phone has got to.”

“How did you know I’d be in?”

“A happy accident.”

Next event: RISE & FALL on Tuesday 12th June

On Tuesday June 12th Liars' League celebrates soaring summer temperatures (hopefully) and plummeting bar prices (2 for 1 burgers) at our RISE & FALL event - and you're invited!

Join a curate fallen from grace, a Titan of tiddlywinks, a neurotic adverb, a plummeting playwright and Prince Harry himself on a rocket-powered rollercoaster ride through triumph and failure. (You can also learn some Irish Gaelic from the world's most terrifying teacher ...) We've got five new authors PLUS our infamous book quiz PLUS free sweets and it's still just a FIVER a ticket. 

WINNING STORIES for RISE & FALL

A Beer in the Interval by Frances Salter NEW AUTHOR - read by Louisa Gummer
A Rearguard Action by Colin Adams NEW AUTHOR - read by Peter Doolan
Schmiedeleut's Play by Han Stickings Smith NEW AUTHOR - read by Tony Bell
The Greatest Tiddlywink Player in the Galaxy by Adam Lewis Smith NEW AUTHOR - read by Gloria Sanders
Literally Having an Existential Crisis by Rushiv Nayee NEW AUTHOR - read by Nick Delvalle
Prince Harry's Last Hurrah by Quintin Forrest - read by Alex Woodhall

Doors open at 7pm for a 7.30 start and tickets are £5 on the door (cash only sorry, but there is a cashpoint across the street). 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

Accessibility note: Access to the basement is via stairs: there is no lift, sadly. 

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

BUT WHAT ABOUT OUR NEXT WRITING DEADLINE? Why, it's Women & Girls on July 1st. Click here to find out more: 

Wine Frame of Mind by Joseph Francis

Click for podcast (fourth story)

Read by James Price

"Right this way sir," says the impeccably dressed French sommelier leading Eric Benson, thirty-three, six months single and rapidly greying, down a dim corridor. They swiftly pass a series of red-curtained rooms that hide the inhabitants, but not their conversations.

“You c*nt.”

“I would die for you!”

“You’re a liar.”

“I adore you ...”

Decluttering by Susan Smith

Click for podcast (eighth story)

Read by Claire Lacey

CDs and DVDs go into the pink charity sack along with a single Blu-ray disc. Where Eagles Dare. Never watched it. Never plan to. The bag is put on the front doorstep and I slam the door.

I donate Terry’s clothes to PDSA and smile sweetly at the woman in the shop as I dump the bulging bin liners on the counter. It feels like the right thing to do. He hated animals.

I take all the plates from the kitchen dresser and place them with great care in a box. Authentic bone china. A gift from Terry’s dear old Auntie Mabel when he moved her into that care home near King’s Lynn. God rest her soul, she didn’t last long after that.

They’d belonged to her mother before her. Family heirlooms, you could say. Precious.

Action by Will Conway

Click for podcast (fifth story)

Read by Rich Keeble

His training had prepared him for this. Every muscle in his body was tensed as he crouched - except his legs - because of the crouch. He performed a quick weapon check. One, two guns … plus the Bowie knife strapped to his back. A blade between his shoulder blades. So, three blades. On top of that, his nerves were so sharp he wasn't sure if he should declare them as dangerous weapons too. But he didn't have time to start counting his nerves; there were probably bloody hundreds of them. No time to talk to himself either. Radio silence. Just like in Beirut. He knew he was in for a long wait. But he could wait. He was patient.

Six long minutes later he heard the guard's replacement arrive. He understood the short conversation about the previous guard's wife and her stew because he was fluent in Russian. Cooper enjoyed flexing the muscles in his mind as well as his body.

Lighter than Air by Anton Rose

Click for podcast (third story)

Read by Miranda Harrison

I meet him down by the river like I said he would. He’s watching a mallard go by on the water, three ducklings following in its wake. At first I think he’s waving, his hand held awkwardly in the air like a flag at half-mast. But he isn’t waving. His arm is held aloft by a small balloon, its ribbon attached to his wrist.

"What's that?" I say, startling him.

He looks confused for a moment, and then he sees what I'm referring to. "It's nothing," he says, pulling his arm down against his side. He leans forward and kisses me. "Thanks for coming."

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes, of course." He smiles, but it looks forced. "Everything's fine."

Chiaroscuro by Richard Shury

Click for podcast (seventh story)

Read by Rich Keeble

I want the job of naming paint colours. That’ll pass the time. How do you even apply for that? On my CV it says: "I’ve named a few goldfish in my time (MacGyver and Robin Hood). Will that do?" Perhaps I should give examples of the names I’ve come up with for colours:

• Badger cull – a kind of dark red
• Unwashed bedsheet – a blotchy off-white
• Summer’s sigh – deep yellow
• Expectation – blank page white
• Hope – blank page white
• Pressure – blank page white
• Promise – blank page white