Alistair Caradec's Blog

The first thing Charlotte remembered was reaching for Dad’s 99 at Hull Fair, and the last was dying. It took a little while to sink in. First, she had to stare down at herself, at the mole just above the corner of her lip. She had to feel for it on her own face because it was supposed to be on the other side, wasn’t it?

The wind picked up again and shook the branches of the tree she’d been playing in, same way she’d done all summer. Climb up. Climb down. Repeat. A new sense of nostalgia came ...

They were, most of them, military men. Terse and disciplined, but not averse to a night of boisterous revelry after a major victory. Some broke into song when news reached the villa that the Senate had voted to forgive its Liberators, and the wine flowed even as an uncharacteristic rain poured down the streets outside.

Trebonius drank beer, of all things, although that was not the only reason everyone else wished he would leave early. His foot tapped nervously against the floor, and his eyes ...

Tuesday and pissing down on Euston Square. I brush elbows with you under the shelter.

“Pound fifty, was it?” I say.

“Seventy-five.”

“Blimey,” I say, and you agree.

I hail 73 to Stoke Newington, glancing back as I hop on. We both smile, but you don’t follow.

Wednesday and we brush elbows again. More smiling, a few more words.

Thursday and I look for you earlier. Our eyes meet. We both freeze. Toothbrush in hand, shame on your face, you spit toothpaste into the bushes. I hesitate...

I cannot finish my
And I keep trying.
It is not the lack of the full stop which causes the strain. It is the trying.
I am not sure that writing is home.
I think maybe writing isn't home anymore.sentences.

All quotes and references are from His Ragged Company, by Rance D. Denton, unless otherwise stated.

“The Magnate’s voice came with a warm wind of softness along the contours of my thoughts.”

Rance Denton has a way with words. A twisted way.

As a writer, I learned a lot, specifically from his explorations of time. The skips, flashes, loops, and the confusion that followed (all of it calculated) sometimes bordered on the experimental, which isn’t something you see too often in genre ficti...

Bar none, the best and most gratifying aspect of self-publication has been getting to hand pick the group of people I wanted to work with. Not that I’m a complete control freak or anything. As it turns out, this isn’t so much about keeping full artistic control as it is about relinquishing it on your own terms. You can’t do this on your own, trust me, unless you’re some sort of all-round ultimate super-powered Artist, trademark, copyright. In which case, good for you and I sort of hate you. ...

Content Warning:
As part of Suicide Prevention Month, and to raise awareness, the following post recounts my personal experience with major depressive disorder. There will be graphic descriptions of suicidal ideation.

Hey kiddo.

Well, I suppose you’re not really a kid, and haven’t been for a long while. Doesn’t really feel that way at the minute, though, does it? Doesn’t really feel like being a grownup. It’s okay. I know.

I know how often you’ve been told that this is normal. That e...

Content Warning: I will be describing coming out, transphobia, homophobia, gaslighting, non-consensual touching, and incest. This does not include outright sexual assault. There will be strong language. Please be safe.

July 15, 2017.

I’m twenty-seven. I’m in a bathroom stall at the local shopping centre, in the ladies’ room – of all the fucking ironic places. Don’t worry, my pants are on, this isn’t that kind of story. I’m just crying. I’m in the ladies’ room, in a bathroom stall, and I’m ...

All quotes and references are from Wranglestone, by Darren Charlton, unless otherwise stated.

“Clock it. Kill it. Rid the world of it.”

This review is long overdue. I believe it was last year that, on a whim, I picked up Wranglestone. Prior to that, and for about half a decade, I’d been unable to focus long enough to finish a novel. I read Wranglestone from cover to cover in three days.

I could not put it down. I found myself reaching for it in the middle of my work shift to read a para...

My little sister Sally used to be an honest girl.

She was overflowing with truthfulness.

Then, one day, quite unexpectedly, she was all truthed out.

Deprived of her legendary truthtelling, Sally began to lie.

The quality of her lies was of course inherent to her newness in the industry. Her fibbing was pretty see-through.

Pinocchio, my parents called her upon discovery of her enlyingment.

My parents believed that lying was one of human nature’s most unpleasant characteristics, ...