Liars' League

Stained by Laura Martz

May 2010 Stained

Read by Tricia Stewart

When a tall, drunk suit at the bar backed into Lindsey, sloshing about an ounce of her large merlot across her pale blue Thomas Pink shirt, it felt like the day was having its last, mean laugh.

“Damn it!” she snapped. He didn’t even notice, just shouted something at the barman and sidled away through the crowd with his hands full of pints.

Lindsey looked down at the stain and jammed her lips together, refusing to start crying again.

 If you would like to read the rest of this story, please check out London Lies, the Arachne Press anthology in which it, and many other London-based stories from the League archives, appears.

Dara by Jessica Lott

May 2010 Dara

Read by Sarah Feathers

“She’s perfect!  And you know how I searched, Maria.”

It’s Wednesday, and I’m over doing Mrs. A’s house. I’m done scrubbing the tub, and I’m waiting for her to stop talking so I can turn on the faucets. She’s going on about her new boarder, Dara, who, like me, is attending college.

“Absolutely brilliant!  A European from Spain. I believe her family’s quite wealthy. Oh, dear, make sure to get the soap scum from the little ledge there. Last time you left quite a bit.”

“What’s she studying?” I ask, but Mrs. doesn’t know. I’m studying English literature, even though my sister says that’s the stupidest thing she’s ever heard of. “Who do you think you are, gomela? You gotta make money when you come out. You got loans.” She acts like I don’t feel the pressure, too, living with her and her three kids in that miniscule two-bedroom way up in East Harlem.

If you would like to read the rest of this story, please check out Lovers' Lies, the Arachne Press anthology in which it, and many other sexy and lovable stories from the League archives, appears.

Tasting Flight by Catherine Sharpe

May 2010 Tasting Flight

Read by Daisy Whyte

A gorgeous meaty smell pulsed from the open hearth that separated the restaurant from the lacquered bar where Pen waited for Amy233, a first meeting.  She was early, straight from yoga, trying to decide what she wanted.  She ordered the Think Pink! rosé tasting flight.  If one was unpalatable, she could move on to the next.  Not far from her bar perch, various meats and a tidy row of ever-larger fowl rotated with precarious dignity over licks of hickory flame--Quail, bantam, duck.  Duck, duck, goose.  Pen could almost hear the sizzle of fat dripping, almost feel hungry.  She tasted the first wine set before her.

If you would like to read the rest of this story, please check out Lovers' Lies, the Arachne Press anthology in which it, and many other sexy and lovable stories from the League archives, appears.

 

A Song about Butterflies by Peter Francis-Mullins

May 2010 A Song About Butterflies

Read by Lisa Rose

It was past midnight when Vicky got home, just a day and a few hours since she had closed the door quietly behind her and slipped away. She dropped her rucksack in the hall. Her schoolbag lay where she had left it, though its contents were scattered now across the floor. A hairdryer buzzed upstairs.

'Mum?' Vicky waited then climbed towards the sound, to Karen's bedroom. Her mother was sprawled, naked on the bed - hair still damp, her dryer labouring into the quilt beside her. Vicky moved quickly to pull out the plug then watched, in the overheated silence, till she was sure that Karen was breathing. Satisfied, she fetched a silky kimono to cover her. Vicky gathered a red-stained mug and a bottle half-full of Chianti from the bedside. She was heading for the door when she trod on an empty beer can which crackled like a firework under her foot. Vicky froze, then turned and met Karen's eyes, sparked awake.

Karen sat up, staring at Vicky then clutching at the kimono, which was falling from her breasts. She slipped off the bed, turning from Vicky as she wrapped the garment around herself. 'Where's the belt?' Vicky found it. Tying the belt as she went, Karen left the room. On the landing, she gripped the banister awhile then went carefully downstairs, a snow-capped volcano on her back.

It Makes a Good Sound by Tom Ryan

May 2010 It Makes a Good Sound

Read by Sean Patterson

At four o'clock, Reidy and I can think of nowhere else to go, so we skirt the ring road until we reach Luka's place.

I tell him we should go home. He agrees. Nevertheless, we walk in under the blue neon that loops out something too abstract for me to make sense of this late. I forget what the bar is called. I forget the last digit in the year. I sometimes forget Reidy's kids' names. Never mine, though I see them less often.