Litro #98 Money Teaser

The Litro Money Issue

Literary Magazine

98

Naomi Alderman Ben Kendall-Carpenter Linda Breneman G.C Perry Ahmed Djouder www.litro.co.uk

Artists’ Laboratory

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Ian McKeever RA Hartgrove Paintings and Photographs 8 September – 24 October 2010 www.royalacademy.org.uk Ian McKeever, Hartgrove Painting No 10,1993-1994.

Oil and acrylic on cotton-duck, 250 x 265 cm.

WELCOME TO ISSUE 98 OF LITRO From the Editor Money. We all want it and God knows we all need it – especially in London, a notoriously expensive city to live in, as well as one where it’s possible to make (and lose) eye-watering amounts of cash. Rich and poor rub shoulders on the streets every day: what divides them is money, but it’s also something that connects each one of us. Transactions dominate our lives: there are few moments when we’re not either spending money or earning it, somehow.

From the office to the pub, from employee to customer, we’re all in the thrall of cash.

Who’d bother going to work if they didn’t get paid? Who doesn’t dream of winning the lottery or a gameshow, finding that elusive suitcase full of used notes, or unearthing a valuable relic in the attic? The power of money is frightening, liberating and exciting, and the stories in this issue embrace and explore all of these qualities.

In the following pages you’ll meet Linda Breneman’s reclusive software millionaire, G.C. Perry’s disillusioned space-seller, Christopher Werkman’s generous busboy and Claire Harris’s ageing, fading aristocratic couple, awash in meaningless money. An exclusive extract from Ahmad Djouder’s Disintegration reveals the endless grind of immigrant labour in the French suburbs, while Mike Wendling and Cassandra Passarelli show us the sharp end of poverty in North and South America.

We’ve got a slew of fiction from red-hot emerging talent, plus a new story by Naomi Alderman, winner of the Orange Award for New Writers for Disobedience, and believe it or not, all this is yours for the once-in-alifetime price of – well, nothing. In a world under the thumb of money, Litro has shaken off the shackles of shekels. Writing you can’t buy, for free: now that’s a bargain.

Katy Darby Editor Litro Magazine September, 2010 Editor-in-Chief & Publisher, Eric Akoto Editor, Katy Darby Contributing Editor, Sophie Lewis Online Editor, Laura Huxley Events Editor, Alex James Litro Magazine, London’s leading short story magazine, please either keep your copy, pass it on for someone else to enjoy, or recycle it – we like to of it as a small monthly book of short stories.

Litro is Sponsored by UK Trade and Investments

Cover Artist: Ian McKeever, Hartgrove Painting No 10, 19931994. Oil and acrylic on cotton-duck, 250 x 265 cm

www.litro.co.uk

Contributors Naomi Alderman

G.C. Perry

(“I love you crazy” p.05) Naomi Alderman’s first novel Disobedience won the Orange Award for New Writers and the Sunday Times Young Writer of the Year. In 2009 she was shortlisted for the BBC National Short Story Award.

Her most recent novel The Lessons was published by Penguin in April 2010. She also writes online games and has a weekly column in the Guardian.

(“Selling space,” p.18) G.C. Perry is not a natural salesman and no longer works in an office. One of his previous efforts was published in the Christmas 2008 issue of Litro. He lives in South London.

Ben Kendall– Carpenter (“Competing currencies,” p.07) Ben Kendall-Carpenter is 25 years old and was born and lives in Manchester. He studied Politics at MMU. Competing Currencies is his second story to see print.

He is currently working on a short story collection called The Nightmare Company, about the horrors of office life.

Linda Breneman (“The trouble with money,” p.09) Linda Breneman worked as a technical writer during the heyday of Seattle’s high-tech boom.

Nowadays she writes stories and essays, plays video games, volunteers, takes care of an ageing cockapoo, and hangs out whenever she can with her college-age son and daughter.

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Ahmed Djouder (tr.

Anthony Cummins) (“Extract: Disintegration,” p.20) from “Désintégration”

by Ahmed Djouder, (c) Editions Stock, 2006. Ahmed Djouder is a writer and editor who was born in Lorraine and lives in Paris. Anthony Cummins is a freelance literary critic and translator.

Mike Wendling (“Slideshow,” p.25) Mike Wendling is a writer, journalist and radio producer. He’s a past winner of the London Writers Award and has been shortlisted for the Bridport, Amazon Breakthrough Novel, and London Short Fiction awards. Originally from the midwest of the U.S.A., he lives in London and in addition to the day job he’s currently working on his first novel, while also editing the new audio magazine 4’33’’ (www. fourthirtythree.com).

Claire Harris (“Lady Melville loses her glasses,” p.27) Claire Harris is an Australian who has spent the last few years travelling and working around the world. She has taught English in the Middle East and Africa, given arts classes in Bolivia and looked after ageing aristocrats in England. She recently returned to Sydney to study creative writing.

Christopher Werkman (“Reflection,”p.41) Christopher Werkman lives on five acres with Karen and six cats. A retired teacher, he still instructs a course at University of Toledo, and driver training for the love of it. He paints, but his passion is writing fiction when he isn’t playing golf or tennis, or riding his motorcycle.

Cassandra Passarelli (“The way things melt,” p.35) Cassandra has run a bakery, managed a charity and sub-edited; travelled in the Middle East, Africa and Sri Lanka; studied literature, journalism and creative writing. She runs a children’s library project in a Guatemalan village, swims in the River Chi’o and practises yoga. She’s published in Earlyworks, Cinnamon Press, Pulp.net, Salt River Review, Litro, Takahe and shortly in Switchback.

This month on Litro.co.uk Litro Loyalty card: exciting new loyalty card: log in and find out about discounts on books, food, festivals and much more.

Q and A: read all about who we’re quizzing this month.

Blogs: Emily Cleaver continues with her musings on all things literary.

News: Find out which lucky person won this ‘years’ short story award.

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Stories

I love you crazy Naomi Alderman

S

5

o I’m lying in bed and suddenly I find that I’m thinking about you which I haven’t done for I don’t know how long but I’m remembering how you used to love it when I slept naked just like I’m doing right now. I’d keep it for special occasions when I wanted to know that I’d be able to drive you wild in a moment and otherwise wear pyjamas and you used to undo the buttons while you were kissing me and not even looking. And that makes me think about the sofas in our best room when I was growing up which my mother always kept the plastic covers on except when the priest came for tea or for Sunday lunch which he did two or three times a year and the rest of the time the covers were on so that if I sat on the sofa with bare legs or in shorts they’d get sweaty, a pool of moisture creeping up under my groin and when I stood up there’d be a sucking noise and the almost-pain of my skin unpeeling from the plastic. And almost-pain brings me back to thinking of you and the way I hardly ever did sleep naked all that time and now you’re not here to be driven wild by it and how you used to say that to me: “you drive me wild, baby”.

So I get up and I make coffee which is strong and black and just what I need and I think about calling you and I wonder how I’d get your number. I try to remember where I put that address book that definitely had your last number in it or maybe if I can remember the name of that place where you worked you might still be there and I’d call like I used to and ask to speak to you in my business voice and you’d answer the phone saying your first name and second name and the name of the company just as if I was anyone else in the world. And then I’d say hey, it’s me. And you’d recognise my voice and suddenly you wouldn’t be all first-namesecond-name-company-name any more, you’d be remembering love in the middle of the afternoon in a work place which is not a love kind of place at all.

And thinking this I decide to call you because it’s the afternoon and it’s a thing I always used to like doing in the afternoon, so I start to look for that address book which I know is around here somewhere. I find a shoebox full of receipts, which I always keep because once you told me that it’s important to keep receipts, I think they can fine you if you don’t. I’m pretty sure that address book is in a shoebox somewhere. I have a distinct recollection of that, I can see it small and black with the gold half rubbed off the edges of the pages and with an elastic band stretched around it. I will have put it somewhere with important things that’s how it feels, I know it’s an important thing so I would have put it in a box with other things that you told me I ought to keep.

I dump the receipts out onto the bed and start rummaging through them although it’s pretty obvious to me from the get-go that the little book isn’t in the box, but somehow I find myself liking looking at

Competing currencies Ben Kendall-Carpenter

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here I live we have two forms of currency – a system that might exist throughout the world. One form is morally indefensible – the other is not. The first, though by no means dominant, currency is that of money, which we use to pay for goods and services. If we desire something and can afford it, we use this first currency. However, for the all-too-frequent occasions when we do not have this form of currency we use the second currency – it’s convenient and readily available, though, sadly, banks don’t accept this second currency. This second currency is called bitterness.

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Join the AuTuMn highLighTS foR MeMbeRS incLude:

Margaret Atwood Michael Holroyd Michael Morpurgo and Romesh Gunesekera Marilynne Robinson William Trevor Membership of The Royal Society of Literature is open to all.

For full information about the benefits of membership and how to join: Telephone 0207 845 4677 Email rachel@rslit.org Website www.rslit.org

The trouble with money Linda Breneman

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upert Jones – though quite brilliant and certainly a legal adult at the age of 25 – has never bothered to grow up. He gets his hair cut twice a year, shaves once a week, and wears ratty jeans and t-shirts every day. Aside from a surfeit of electronics, he lives simply in a cluttered and mildewed rented room. In these ways he isn’t much different from masses of modern American Peter Pans.

But in one way Rupert Jones is unusual: his net worth exceeds twenty million dollars, and hardly anyone – including his parents – knows it. This isn’t a problem, at least not for Rupert, until the day his parents tell him they’re facing foreclosure on the family home.

They don’t blurt the news; they let it dribble out. First, Rupert’s mother Nancy leaves a message on his cell: “Rupert, we need you.”

This rare and vague declaration spurs Rupert to leave his room, jump in his nondescript ’99 Toyota, and motor across the city in rainy rush-hour traffic.

Nancy meets Rupert at the door with a cry of delight.

She eats carefully and teaches yoga; she’s a young sixty-five. Her skin, though wrinkled, is bright, and her compact body is lithe.

John, Rupert’s dad, looks like a shaggy Sigmund Freud. He glances up from his Ecclesiastical History of the English People. Because he had opposed calling Rupert in the first place and because he dislikes being reminded of looming disaster, he is not as pleased to see Rupert as Nancy is.

“Why is it so cold in here?” Rupert says.

In the early spring in Seattle, most people heat their houses, if only to reduce the dampness. But it’s chilled and clammy. Six dripping candles shed a meagre trickle of light.

“And why isn’t the phone ringing?”

The Joneses normally field scores of calls from friends, colleagues, students, and activists checking in.

“We are community people …” Nancy says automatically.

Rupert hates this phrase. He isn’t conscious of the reason, but a visit to a capable shrink would uncover an image of dozens of busybodies watching him perform private bodily functions.

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“… But we had to put the phones on silent because of the collectors.” Nancy’s eyelid twitches.

Selling space G.C. Perry

Y

ou sell space. Not space that you can live in, roam around in, make yourself at home in, stretch out and relax in.

And not the kind of space you can send rockets to, have satellites beaming messages from, the sort of space that can leave you befuddled in your efforts to conceptualise its limitlessness. You sell advertising space in magazines and the only sense of the infinite you encounter is the boundlessness of your boredom.

The space you sell is a chimerical, shifting thing. If no one buys the space it ceases to exist, only to be reborn the next month, the following issue, a blank space again, waiting to be sold.

This space will make you money, you tell your clients. This space is better than that other magazine’s space, you promise. Buy more of this space and you will become more successful, you say. You know it’s lies, and you think your buyers know you’re lying too, but you dare not ask them – this would be like the marionettes in a puppet show turning to the audience to ask how the show is going.

When your puppet masters leave you to yourself, you draw the handset from your throbbing ear and discuss life’s imponderables with your colleagues. Who would win a fistfight between David Cameron and Nick Clegg? If you had to sacrifice a limb, which one would it be? Tess Daly or Keira Knightley?

You sell space during the day and in the evening tug off your tie and repair to the pub to discuss with your colleagues the wretchedness of your shared days. Rounds are squared, new rounds are forged. Cigarettes are smoked and fresh packets are haggled over, purchased and shared again.

Homeward bound with a full bladder on the night’s last train. Pissing into alleyways. Hands lotioned with kebab grease and chilli sauce. A curry after payday.

Waking to a nagging alarm and a throbbing head, you calculate the last possible moment you can rise and do all the things you need to do before leaving the house to catch the train to take you back to the office to sell more space. And as you lie there, you think about space: not the space you must sell, nor the kind of space you might live in, or send rockets to. You think about the yawn of space deep inside you and you try and locate it: is it in your head or your chest, your heart or your soul – whatever that may be?

But it can’t be located, it just is. The same way infinity just is. Scientists may calculate infinity, but you just have to accept it, like the void inside you, for now at least, because you don’t have the wherewithal – energy, courage – to do anything else. So you accept it, check the clock and rise to begin another day.

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The University for business and the professions

Creative Writing courses at City University London We spot the talent – you develop your potential Evening courses commencing October 2010 Taught by practising professionals, these offer a range of flexible approaches to learning how to write creatively for a wide variety of markets.

Why choose City?

• Courses are taught over 10 weeks during the evenings meaning you can work while you study • Flexibility – all courses can be taken as discrete units or as pathways to one of City’s MAs in Creative Writing • All tutors are published writers or industry professionals, and include Litro editor Katy Darby • City’s 0ne-year Certificate in Novel Writing has produced published writers including Rachel Zadok (shortlisted for Whitbread First Novel Award), Penny Rudge and Kirstan Hawkins Publishing a first novel event to be held at City University on 26 October 2010 featuring some of our published authors and their agents. See website for details.

❝

the standard of students is very high, and one of the best benefits was forming long-term relationships (and friendships) with such talented fellow-writers

❞

Penny Rudge, Certificate in Novel Writing 2005/6, author of Foolish Lessons in Life and Love (Little, Brown, 2010)

To find out more about Creative Writing courses at City visit www.city.ac.uk/arts/litro, email evening@city.ac.uk or call 020 7040 8237

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Extract: Disintegration Ahmed Djouder (translated from the French by Anthony Cummins)

O

ur mothers and fathers won’t ever play tennis, badminton or golf. They won’t ever go skiing. They won’t ever eat at a Michelin-starred restaurant. They won’t ever buy a LouisPhilippe desk or a Louis XV armchair or Guy Degrenne crockery or Baccarat glassware or even blinds from Habitat. They won’t ever attend a classical music concert. Never in their lives will they own an apartment or a nice property somewhere in the French countryside in which to end their days in peace and quiet. No, instead they’ve chosen to invest in homes back in the sticks, to put their money – tens of years of sacrifice – into houses that look a little like concrete blocks, houses they call villas.

Our mothers and fathers won’t ever taste champagne, caviar or truffles. They do their shopping at Aldi and Lidl, where they buy tins of tuna, potatoes, jars of kidney bean salad, haricot beans, flageolet beans, semolina, rice, pasta, fizzy drinks, ownbrand Coca-Cola and Orangina. Always the cheapest, the saltiest, the sweetest. Never will they sleep on thousand-thread-count sheets.

Never will they spend weekends in London, Vienna or Milan. That said, if they live outside Paris, their local council might lay on a bus trip to the capital so they can go bargain-hunting at Tati and trawl the stalls at Barbès before getting a look at the Eiffel Tower.

They won’t ever see the Alps, St Tropez, Normandy or the Île de Ré. They won’t ever walk the beach in Brittany and say to themselves, A gentle breeze, how nice. To them a map of France is meaningless. Of its beautiful countryside they know nothing.

Because they’re never visiting, only passing through; when they’ve got to register at the embassy, for instance, and the embassy’s in another district. Sometimes – rarely, because of the fares – they go to see friends who don’t live in the capital; on the motorway they watch green fields pass the window. This happens once every ten years.

When they go back to Algeria, driving through Spain and Morocco, the road signs point out places of interest. Visit the splendid abbey in the picturesque mountainside village of … They barely notice. They don’t have time; there’s three days’ travelling ahead.

Neither we nor our parents will ever go to the opera: what little we’ve seen on television’s enough to convince us it’ll be torture. It’s very odd if someone raised on our estates is able to enjoy opera, and such cases are miracles, because when you grow up hearing your brothers and sisters scream all day long you’ve about the same chance of developing a taste for opera or classical music as a flower has of growing from a football.

Not once in their lives will our fathers or mothers go to the theatre.

And you can be sure – a thousand per cent sure – our fathers won’t

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Slideshow of pictures taken in Cleveland, Ohio just after the height of the subprime mortgage crisis Mike Wendling

T

his one, you can see what happens when they don’t board up the windows. Up there. The kids get a free shot. That piece of paper right there in the corner, pasted to the mailbox – that’s the actual foreclosure notice.

* Big, huh? Nice shade of green. You put that house in Shaker, in Lakewood, 200k, easy. One-fifty at least. The saddest thing here I think is that makeshift railing on the porch right there. You can tell that at some point, not too long ago, somebody cared. They didn’t just leave the porch to rot, they tried to fix it. It was going to be temporary, just a stopgap, until they got a bit of money, to fix it for good.

* Yeah, that is a bit hard to make out but you can see across the park there, those four houses in a row, all boarded up.

* I don’t know what that’s doing in there.

* Right there, check it out, the graffiti on the side. A gun, shooting bullets that look bigger than the gun itself. No sign of a hand gripping the gun, etcetera. Below, the word – Dacon, Darcon?

Somebody’s tag probably.

*

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No, that’s over on the west side. A pretty nice neighbourhood, if you can believe it. There’s a new coffee shop behind me. It had just started to snow.

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To find out more about putting our expertise to work for your business please contact: Natalia Papadopoulou Email: natalia.papadopoulou@fco.gov.uk Tel: 0030 210 727 2648 or visit www.ukti.gov.uk

Lady Melville loses her glasses Claire Harris

Illustration by Laura Tolton

T

oday Lady Melville lost her glasses. She promptly rang the bell three times. I was in the kitchen chopping vegetables when I heard the ding-ding-ding. The ding-ding-ding meant that she was in the living room, if it had been a dong-dong-dong she would have been in the bedroom, and a ding-dong would have placed her in the bathroom among the crocheted toothbrush holders and velvet toilet paper covers. I knew it was a matter of urgency because it was three dings and not two, a mere ding-ding could have been the remote control out of reach or Lord Melville needing to go to the toilet or Lord Melville having a burst catheter and requiring immediate hospitalisation or Lord Melville needing to be diverted for a few minutes of wakefulness between naps or Lord Melville trying to tell a joke. One could never quite know what Lord Melville wanted so it was safe to assume that any bell-ringing on behalf of Lord Melville was a two-ding or dong situation.

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The way things melt Cassandra Passarelli

I

sa slipped into Sarita’s ice-cream shop and lolled at the counter. Her dark hair hung in ropes down her back, her huipil was unhemmed, skirt dusty. Hilda, a thick-set woman, looked back from the sink, a smile lighting her worn face.

‘Hello, Isa, my love,’ she laughed, and turned back to rinsing cartons. Hilda was known for siren blasts of startling mirth; peals that made others giggle even if they’d missed the joke.

Isa shifted from one foot to the other, bursting to say something.

Hilda, stacking cartons in lop-sided piles to dry, didn’t notice.

A family stepped into Sarita’s to study the menu boards.

‘I want scoops,’ the daughter said.

‘A waffle cone,’ said the granddaughter.

‘Scoops?’ asked the old man.

Isa stood, twisted against the freezer, her message on hold. The old man was twice grandfather’s size, the old lady had cropped flossy hair, so unlike granny’s long grey plaits tied with rags. The Señora, like a freshly-picked hortensia in frilly Lycra, was made-up and perfumed and nothing like Isa’s mother. The girl was a hand taller than Isa. Isa envied her hair clips with plastic daisies stuck to them. Wished she looked as shiny with so much colour in her cheeks.

Hilda smoothed her pinafore over her square hips, tucked a wisp of hair firmly behind her ear and tilted her head attentively.

‘So, scoops?’

‘Vanilla, dipped in chocolate and nuts.’

Hilda folded herself over the cabinet, shovelling grainy ice-cream into generous clods and trowelling it onto the cone. She dipped the scoops in the bain-marie and the melted chocolate set from shiny to dull. A sliver of drool escaped Isa’s lips before she sucked it in, biting her lip. Hilda slid open freezer doors and shifted boxes around, fishing for a vanilla sandwich. The old man pointed to a tub of dulce de leche, wordlessly.

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Isa wedged herself deeper into the corner, between the drinks cabinet and the wall. From the shadows, her eyes, dark as dried plums, darted from one face to the other, ogling the lips and

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Reflection Christopher Werkman

S

o now what? Your move, Mr. Smartguy. Riding the subway from your minimal-wage job, bussing in a diner catering to the human equivalent of go-to-work clunkers. Sadly, you recognise you’re no standout in that worn linoleum service station. The waitresses crack gum, continually brush oily tendrils of bleached hair from their heavily-mascaraed eyes and screw you out of your share of tips like it’s an Olympic event. Your boss hollers “Iraq!” instead of Eric. Yes, you are dark with dark eyes, but not Middle-Eastern. You stay primarily because he lets you gobble table scraps. Your expenses dropped dramatically with the no-smoking laws; customers no longer stub out on their leftovers.

Helps to afford the closet-size apartment you share with leaky pipes and a cat that acts like she took you in. At least invading wolf spiders devoured the roaches.

So, Mr. Smartguy. The money rests on the floor near the seat of the only other passenger in the car. Dropped from her purse?

She’s not Playboy material, but her blouse is crisp and white, shoes unscuffed. Additionally, she has serenity. Even in the raucous cacophony of the train, you sense a wrap of tranquillity surrounding her. You’re drawn to this girl, but reality slaps you wise. Maybe in a parallel universe somewhere, a chick like this would be interested in you, but you’ve never found its entranceway. Odours of stale grease and dish detergent aren’t seductive.

Your stop is next. Better make a decision. You can’t see the denomination. Probably not huge, but it could be a ten. Twenty?

Not enough to change your life, but even five would add comfort.

There’s something about the way she sways with the bucking subway car; in rhythm, like women you saw riding horses on television. The tilt of her head bespeaks a naive openness that endears and provokes your protective impulses. You cave. Step over and pick up the money. She startles, eyes wide and brimming with wonder. You unfold it. Not one. Two twenties. A breath stabs your lungs, but you offer the bills.

Her head wags. The most delicate little smile breaks the silky smooth of her cheeks.

“It’s not mine.” Her lips part yet more. “Finders, keepers,” she giggles, happy for you. Your heart slams at your ribs. Two twenties.

Nearly a day’s pay. The train slows and you brace. She gets up to leave. You follow her off, still wallowing in disbelief with a twenty clenched in each hand. She waves and starts down the platform.

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Litro Listings September Bellyaches, bassoons and buen dia. That’s the formula that makes up the Litro hotlist of events for September. Indulge your fiction fantasies, swoon to music from past and future, and laugh until it hurts at an eclectic mix of events that won’t disappoint, edited by Alex James.

6th – 12th Sept 2010, Greenwich Comedy Festival at the beautiful grounds of the Old Royal Naval College, Greenwich.

This September London’s biggest ever comedy festival returns with another bumper crop of the biggest and best names in comedy and cabaret.

The 2010 festival is set to top its triumphant first year as the beautiful grounds of the Old Royal Naval College. For more information visit www. greenwichcomedyfestival.co.uk

9th – 12th Sept, Bestival, Robin Hood Park, Isle of Wight. Londoners hungry to prolong the red hot summer will descend on the Isle of Whight for a line-up that sees The Prodigy, Dizzee Rascal, Flaming Lips, Roxy Music, Hot Chip, LCD Soundsystem and Fever Ray. Our eyes are on the Comedy Tent, this year it’s packed with the best in verbal wordplay. See: www.bestival.net.

11th Sept 2010, Proms in the Park, Hyde Park, Now in its 15th year, BBC Proms in the Park remains one of London’s most popular outdoor live music events. Grab a picnic and some flags and head to Hyde Park to enjoy five hours of music and entertainment. The evening will culminate in a live big-screen link up to the Royal Albert Hall for the traditional festivities and flag-waving, and a spectacular firework finale.

See: ww.bbc.co.uk/proms/2010

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19th

–

21st

Sept

2010,

Hampstead

&

Highgate Literary Festival 2010. Hosted by the London Jewish Cultural Centre (LJCC) in partnership with the Ham&High newspaper, the 2010 Festival is open to the whole community, with nearly 50 different talks and workshops to choose from. Book sales and signings will be held after each event by Daunt Books. The event takes place with a formidable line-up, including Martin Amis, Joanna Trollope, and um Lord Archer. Ah well, you can’t have everything.

See: www.hamhighlitfest.com

21st Sept – 9th Oct 2010, The Off Cut Festival. Old Red Lion Theatre in Angel. After the enormous success of their first festival last year, In Company Theatre has launched The Off Cut Festival 2010. The festival showcases the work of new and undiscovered writing, directing and acting talent; presenting 24 fifteen minute plays over two weeks. It is the audience members that are asked to vote for their favourite plays and the top eight will be performed again over a final week. For more information visit www.theoffcutfestival.com

23rd – 26th Sept, Small Wonder Short Story Festival. If Litro was a festival, this is what it’d like to be. Small Wonder is a chance to sample the best and the most innovative short fiction in a variety of forms – readings, dramatisations, musical, digital and interactive versions – from the top word practitioners.

The line up is packed with cutting edge fiction from New York, the great tradition of the Irish short story, love stories, ghost stories, and a chance to try your own. There’s even a Small Wonder beer. See: www.charleston.org.uk/smallwonder

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24th Sept – 7th October 2010. London Spanish Film Festival launches with a phenomenal line-up of films. Bringing together numerous UK premières, the festival will again offer audiences a unique opportunity to view the most talked about Spanish cinema unseen here in London. www.londonspanishfilmfestival.com

Sept 25th. Touched by the Hand of Mod. Brighton and Mod go together like lager and lime or cheese and pickle, and spawned a whole craze of new Brit Beat Poetry. If you want to know why it’s a cult classic, watch the film Quadrophenia, then head to this all-nighter on the coast: www.mygenerationfestival.co.uk

26th

Sept

2010.

The

Philharmonia

Orchestra season, Southbank Centre, The Philharmonia Orchestra has announced its 2010/11 season at its London home venue, Southbank Centre. During the season the London Philharmonic Orchestra performs 35 evening concerts at Southbank Centre’s Royal Festival Hall. One highlight includes the Orchestra’s contribution to the London-wide celebrations to mark 150 years after Mahler’s birth (1860) and 100 years since his death.

See: www.southbankcentre.co.uk

30th Sept – 16th Jan 2010, Gauguin: Maker of Myth, Tate Modern, Gauguin (1848-1903) is one of the most influential and celebrated artists of the late nineteenth century. Remarkably, this is the first major exhibition in London to be devoted to his work in over half a century. Gauguin: Maker of Myth will trace the artist’s unique approach to storytelling. Bringing together over 100 works from public and private collections from around the world, the exhibition will take a fresh and compelling look at this master of modern art. See: www.tate.org.uk

Edited by Alex James , contact, events@litro.co.uk / www.alexjames.info

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