Interior // fiction

First published on 50 to 1 (August 12th 2011) //

Interior by Declan Tan

As their flat planned to murder them with dust, he walked in, untied his shoelaces. She was standing there, eating a piece of fruit over the sink.

“It’s too juicy,” she said, the pear in her hand.

“It’s too juicy,” he said, mockingly.

“Fuck you.”

He kicked off his shoes.

The Man Who Stopped To Think // fiction

First published by MiPOesias Shorts Series (July 20th 2011) //

The Man Who Stopped To Think

‘So you wanna be a moff then, do ya?’
‘No. Not a moth, man. That’s not the point.’
‘Not a moff. Then what is it?’
‘I was just saying. This moth here. It doesn’t even want to be a moth, does it? Look at it.’
‘That’s obvious, innit. Wanted ta be a butterfly, din’t it?’
‘Yes, don’t think that’s how it works though. But anyway, that’s not the point.’
‘En’t it?’
‘No. Not the point at all. The point is that the moth…’
‘Don’t wanna be a moth…’
‘Right, forget it.’
‘… Wanted ta be a butterfly, innit?’
‘Forget it.’
‘I’m gonna have a cigarette. Couldn’t enjoy that first one. Gave me the wobbles.’ ‘Want one?’
‘I’m good, ta.’
‘Gave me the shits.’
‘Too hot for a cigarette. My face is all sweat.’

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San Pedro Prison on St. George’s Day

First published on Spike Magazine (May 31st 2011) //

Declan Tan’s second ‘Letter from La Paz’ is a fictional account of a visit to Bolivia’s San Pedro prison

“A pint a-Carling yeah and whatever you’re havin’,” a white-spit mouth, mine, chums out familiar to the bar girl. I’m pointing at the tap and reaching my hand out as it pours, my fingers snatching at the half-filled glass. I can’t wait around. We’re in La Paz for 3 days. I’m counting pints in my head. We have to fit it all in somehow. I just been ridin’ down the World’s Most Dangerous Road on a borrowed mountain bike and I need a pint of England’s finest to savour the moment. Yeah I know. Top Gear did it in jeeps, the legends.

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Cumulo // fiction

First published with MiPOesias and available here in print //

She sat her bum down next to him; clad in black as the hanging nimbus overlooking their train, but not as wet. As she had waited for the sliding door to allow her through, her innocent face staid and glum, he eyed her slyly with suspicion, but without really looking, and resisting the urge to put his face directly onto hers. So with her now next to him and alien, he merely fidgeted, not knowing where now to position his arms, or how to hold the nothing in his hands, himself feeling quite the gangly-armed intruder. Either way and oblivious to his concerns, she did not notice, she only sat there and that was all.

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