Steven Appleby

Paul Beckman

Ryan Buynak

S. E. Cohn

Kele Okereke

Louise Phillips

Mark Saba

Janice Shapiro

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God Bless America is the theme of this issue, and after the Fourth of July fireworks have died down, with the ten-year anniversary of 9/11 approaching, now is an interesting time to look across the Atlantic to count the blessings (and curses) of the United States.

We’ve got stories by authors from the East and West coasts and points in between: from Canada, Connecticut and (in a very 21st-century twist) by Bloc Party frontman Kele Okereke, who lives in both London and New York. The narrator of Kele’s story His first dead body, aptly enough, is a semi-stranger to the Big Apple, getting a baptism of fire after a wild night out – and the alienation he feels is echoed in Louise Phillips’s Keeping Up, a tale of immigration and integration told over 100 years through key moments in American history, from Ellis Island to OJ.

Ghosts – of history, of memory, of dreams and desires – also populate this issue, from the slaves freed by the Underground Railroad in Mark Saba’s View, to the best friend who haunts hardbitten Hollywood agent Peg in Janice Shapiro’s Night and Day. Even the real estate copywriter in Paul Beckman’s bittersweet Whatchamacallit is haunted, in this case by the words that are starting to escape him.

We’ve got poetry too, from Ryan Buynak, who sings us the unheard Song of the Busboy “playing five nights a week / sometimes six, depending / if someone needs a shift covered” and flash fiction from former pro hardball player S. E. Cohn, who fits more story between parentheses than many more prolix writers do in a thousand words.

In Litro this month, with the support of the American Embassy, we’ve sought out and brought you brand new work by the best emerging American writers – some of these names may be new to you now, but that’s because they represent the future of Stateside literature, not its past. We believe our authors in this issue put the stars in the Stars and Stripes – and we’re sure, when you read their stories, you’ll agree.

Have a nice day!

Katy DarbyEditorJuly 2011

FROM THE EDITOR

WELCOME TO ISSUE 108 OF LITRO

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CONTENTSHIS FIRST DEAD BODY

Kele Okereke

WHATCHAMACALLIT

Paul Beckman

CARTOON: HOW TO ...

Steven Appleby

KEEPING UP

Louise Phillips

VIEW

Mark Saba

( )

S. E. Cohn

POEM: SONG OF THE BUSBOY

Ryan Buynak

NIGHT AND DAY

Janice Shapiro

EVENTS LISTINGS

Alex James

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Greetings! I am delighted to welcome you to this special American edition of Litro.

It aims to bring you some of the best and newest of writing in the U.S. today. As an American who has lived in London for nearly three years now, I am still amazed at the deep knowledge and appreciation that people here have of U.S. culture in all shapes and forms. Litro is a great example of this.

I hope you will join me in exploring such gems in this current issue as a story from the cult author and screenwriter Janice Shapiro, to something a little different, still very much a product of Transatlantic cultural exchange: a story from Kele Okereke, lead singer of the British band Bloc Party, who is currently living in New York.

I hope that you enjoy reading this smorgasbord of writing from the United States, whether you are reading it while travelling to or from work, or relaxing at home.

Sincerely,

Liza DavisCultural Attaché

MESSAGE FROM U.S. CULTURAL ATTACHÉ LIZA DAVISTO LITRO READERS

He wasn’t sure if it was rude or not, leaving the club mid-conversation, but that stupid fucking song about being a

firework had just started to play again and he knew that this was a sign that he should not be here. That song had been following him around New York for the whole week, blasting from car stereos to the bodegas up and down the West Village where he was staying. It didn’t make any sense, what did it mean to be a firework? Why did she sound so carefree singing that lyric about being on fire? It just made him angry. So he told Derek, or Daniel, or David the eager young consultant who was talking to him (not the other way around) that he was going for a cigarette. He carefully descended the stairs of the club, making sure not to touch any of the sweaty shirtless bodies of the wide-eyed men. The surly blonde twink did not look him in the eye as he handed him back his leather jacket at the coat-check. Thank you, he muttered to himself. A perfect end to a perfect evening.

Out on the sidewalk he bristled as he felt the first blast of cold air. It was supposed to be warmer here; he had only brought one thin leather jacket to last him for the four weeks and he was already starting to get a cold. Yesterday it had rained all day, from the moment he woke up to the time he stumbled back to his apartment in the early hours of the morning. He might as well still be in London. If he was in London now, he would probably be doing the exact same thing, walking home on his own from the Joiner’s Arms, his local gay bar, semi-drunk and in a bad mood. If he was feeling particularly desperate he would probably call his ex Ruben, who would most probably ignore his call. He stopped himself mid-thought; there was no point thinking like this. He was here now, and he had to make it work.

For months he had thought of nothing but yellow taxis, brownstones and Times Square. New York was going to be his awakening; he would forget about Ruben and he would forget that he hated his job and everything and for four weeks he would feel life again. But so far it hadn’t really panned out like that. The only person he’d spoken to yesterday that he thought was nice was the girl in pizza shop at the end of his road. She called him honey as she gave him a lukewarm

HIS FIRST DEAD BODYKELE OKEREKE

LITRO | 08

Mirsky was working in his home office writing ad copy for a housing brochure and for the life of him couldn’t think of the

word for the bump that went from the road surface to the sidewalk. Driveway. Divider. Edging. These words came flying back and forth into his head and he knew they were wrong, and he also knew that he had thought of the right word when he began to write the copy but the harder he tried to think of it now, the farther from his grasp it slipped.

He felt the spasm of an anxiety attack. Mirsky was only fifty-five years old and this was another in a series of words that he’d been forgetting lately. About six months ago he noticed his wife Elaine was finishing his sentences for him. Mirsky had always been a fast thinker and a fairly rapid talker so while he’d observed this behaviour in other couples, it was a new experience for him. He laughed about it with Elaine when it started, and even later on when friends orco-workers began doing it to him too. No one thinks much of tossing a word into another’s sentence; it’s a common phenomenon, and has been forever, probably.

But at his age, when friends and relatives are talking about their parents’ dementia or Alzheimer’s, Mirsky has started to worry. Until this moment with the sidewalk word, he hadn’t shared his thoughts with anyone. Putting his pen down, he reflected on what was happening, and why people were finishing his sentences. Mirsky thought that perhaps his voice trailed off, or he spoke slower as he came to the end of a sentence. Then he realized that he’d really and truly been having difficulty thinking of last words.

As Elaine walked by his office door and smiled at him, Mirsky waved her in. She had a great smile and used it often.

“What do you call this part of the subdivision road?” he asked, pointing to the line on the plot plan.

“The curb?” she asked without hesitation, as if he’d sprung a surprise quiz on her.

WHATCHAMACALLITPAUL BECKMAN

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Steven Appleby’s work has appeared in newspapers, on television, on Radio 4, on stage at the ICA and in over 20 books. His Coffee Table Book of Doom will be published in September, and his website iswww.stevenappleby.com

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December 31, 1900

The New Year was celebrated outside the city hall. An extra force of police had been detailed to prevent a crush. Circulation was

difficult, but everyone remained in high spirits. The crowds stretched down Broadway and Park Row. The dailies will report that several women were said to have been frightened, and two or three fainted.

‘The advance of the human race during the past 100 years has not been equalled by the progress of man within any of the preceding ages.’

The President of the Council spoke. The city hall was strung with red, white, and blue electric lights. Music was provided by John Philip Sousa and his military band. The Choral Union sang America, God Bless America, and the Hallelujah Chorus. Men blew on tin horns and passed each other flasks of homemade spirits. Some of them got a bit tight. Women wore blouses with bone-stiffened collars which restricted the movement of their necks; in the finer homes it is still unthinkable to be seen leaving the lavatory by anyone but an intimate relation.

‘We shall soon not only be citizens of a Nation recognised throughout the world as the greatest of a State pre-eminent among States, and of a city not only the metropolis of the Western world, but of the whole world.’

The choir stopped singing and the lights went out just before twelve. The crowds were silent as the denouement of the Gilded Age unfolded in the cold night. The bells in the clock rang out the hour. The lights went back on and fireworks exploded over the city. Ships in the harbour blew their horns. The staff at The New York Times went up to the roof of their Park Row offices to set off Roman candles and write down descriptions of the pyrotechnics.

The crowds had dispersed by one o’clock. The elevated trains going up-town and to Brooklyn were packed. It smelled like sulphur. An

KEEPING UPLOUISE PHILLIPS

LITRO | 18

At the crest of a small hill, a hill that has not always been regarded in its long history, sits an heirloom building made of

wood, two-storey, long, low, with a front porch that spans the length of it. The building hovers over a commercial street, a busy street that leads in one direction to the outer suburbs, and in the other to more seasoned neighbourhoods of the city. Most of the other buildings, in either direction, are of brick.

From this viewpoint, this hovering porch, patrons of the bar it holds may wander about in heated discussion, or laughter, or solitary despair. There is nothing this porch hasn’t heard or seen, no conversation that doesn’t echo another, no ghost that is unwelcome, though some of its ghosts go unnoticed – timid ghosts, like those who first travelled there from fear and longing long ago.

These were the slaves who hid in the building’s cavernous basement, aided by a few local souls, who stole by night to points further north along the route of freedom. They wrapped themselves in fading quilts and slept by quiet streams in the heart of the Appalachians at the break of dawn, dreaming of Big Dippers and the dotted lights of northern towns. They traded their quilts with every conductor, and read the secret route that was handed to them in each new pattern. They brought a lifetime’s store of memories with them as they lay in the basement of the solitary wooden house, some only in their teens, others not much older but broken into an early, deep maturity.

They roam, wrapped in their quilts, along the porch after midnight, after the house’s newest guests have left, drunken, near-sighted, and oblivious to the past.

At two A.M., then, a boy walks by, a boy of fifteen on his way home from a soul-searching evening he has spent with his love, an evening of storm and calm set against the inescapable hum and life of a party. His heart has been opened, and everything he sees and feels pours in and out of it as he walks home in the cool, early-morning air.

She has started not to look at him when she speaks to him; her

VIEWMARK SABA

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( )S. E. COHN

Maya spoke to him in a parenthetical tone. It was all very tongue-in-cheek. But maybe her whole life had been that

way; encased in parentheses. Her father was a famous Broadway playwright and her mother a socialite. A child was their parentheses. A sort of whisper to their Jewish parents (to get off their backs), a proof (that they loved each other) and a reminder (to be better to one another). And she grew up during the 70s in an Upper East Side house of decadent parties where couples came over and dropped their keys into a bowl. She was told to stay in her room and read books (but sometimes she peeked). Most couples rejoined hands at dawn and watched the sun rise before leaving.

And ten years later, like she preferred, Maya was with a stray. Men passing through town offered her the best love. It was always romantic and capricious. Like the men she spied on years ago from her bedroom door, they were passionate, desperate and loved to whisper.

“Tell them you found a lover,” he whispered into her ear after he came. He wanted her to call her parents and get some dough for the two of them to hit the road together. “My brother has a place in Florida.”

She snickered and raised her eyes suggestively.“Who says you’re the only one?” She reached for the bottle of

beer on the nightstand and lipped it playfully, tilting her head back as she swallowed.

“Oh c’mon!” he pleaded. “The things you said! We can be together!” He tried taking her into his arms, but she turned her back towards him and replied, “And do what? (Watch the sun rise?)”

S.E. Cohn is a writer from Ventura, California. His work has appeared in Word Riot and Wanderlust Review, as well as weekly newspapers throughout California and Idaho. He had a two-year stint in a semi-pro Mexican hardball league. He played catcher and batted .347, but threw out only one runner. He is also the frontman for The Pullmen, a Southern California rock band.

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In the eyes of senator strangers,they are help, just.

they are not blue-collar,but they are not parking lot attendants.

No one wants to hear their stories any more,omelettes and cigarettes,maintenance and tv sets,

who has time for romance?

In these United Statesalong this Gulf of Mexico,

going to Community College,illegal as can be.

This is the song of the busboyplaying five nights a weeksometimes six, depending

if someone needs a shift covered.

Ryan Buynak is a very good-looking young man who happens to be the future of American poetics.

SONG OF THE BUSBOYRYAN BUYNAK

LITRO | 36

Baxter is crying on the phone. He is a new client and very young, not yet twenty, so I am being patient. It is one in the morning

and I stare out the bedroom window at the dark surf, mainly black with rising lines of ghostly white.

“Jewel’s left me,” Baxter somehow manages to cough out between sobs.

“That’s terrible, baby,” I say, and since my light is now on, check the bedside BlackBerry to see what’s lined up for the next day – well, technically that day, Saturday. It’s pretty open until a late afternoon barbeque at a studio exec’s house, a concert with a casting agent, and then a party at the home of a not-so-important-at-the-moment-but-could-become-big producer.

“I mean, like … like … like … she’s really gone …” Baxter says with that pathetic sincerity common to so many of the newly signed – the beautiful young men whose acting careers I manage. “She even took the panda, man.”

“What panda?” I toss the BlackBerry back on the night-table and pick up the mirror to see if I’d been sleeping weird.

“The black-and-white one.”

“All pandas are black and white, darling,” I say, and am relieved to see my cheeks are crease free and eyes not too hideously puffy.

“Ling-Ling. Jewel always sleeps with Ling-Ling … That’s like, how I know she isn’t coming back …”

“Got it,” I say, and think these kids are so much younger than I remember being when I was their age. What the fuck did their parents do to retard this generation’s emotional development so uniformly?

“What should I do, Peg? I mean, like, really, I think I love her … What

NIGHT AND DAYJANICE SHAPIRO

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From opera for beggars to dance for Latin-lovers, via festivals, comedy, Prohibition, classic film, free theatre and live literature, let the sunshine in with Litro’s summer listings, compiled by Alex James.

Until 23rd July: The Beggars’ Opera,Regents Park Open Air Theatre, £17-44A musical comedy of highwaymen, hangmen and harlots comes to the Open Air Theatre this summer. Join Macheath and his partners in crime in John Gay’s ageless comic opera. See: www.openairtheatre.com

1st to 2nd July: Hop on The Farm, Kent, prices vary. A stunning lineup of literary and music genius - including headliners the Eagles and Morrissey alongside the likes of Iggy & The Stooges, Bryan Ferry, Newton Faulkner and Brandon Flowers, this event offers a relaxed vibe set against the stunning backdrop of the Hop Farm Country Park in Kent. It’s run by former Mean Fiddler (Reading and Leeds, Glastonbury etc) chief Vince Power and came about after festival fans became disillusioned with the mainstream events.See: www.hopfarmfestival.com

LISTINGSJULY / AUGUST

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2nd July: Velvet Lounge, secret private venue, Dalston, see website for prices.The Baron Von Sanderson invites you for one night only to “The Velvet Lounge” a night of easy listening, champagne cocktails and live beat poetry. This is a one off pop up event, dedicated to the easier face of 60’s pop music encompassing sounds from Burt Bacharach to Jimmy Webb via the swinging sounds of the French Ye Ye beat. Ladies put on those maxi dresses and diamanté, boys take that velvet suit to the cleaners. Throw your car keys into the onyx ashtray and swing like it’s 1968, but don’t tell your parents.See: www.diefrechemuse.co.uk

7th July: Between the Lines – Bill Harry Mersey Beat 50th Anniversary, O2 Bubble.A special evening is in store as Mersey Beat creator Bill Harry recounts the beginnings of Mersey Sound magazine and how it helped shaped rock journalism 50 years ago. Liverpool legend and childhood friend of John Lennon, Bill Harry was the creator of Mersey Beat, the hugely influential and significant music paper of the 1960’s. Launched in 1961, Mersey Beat focused on the booming Liverpool scene and successfully built relationships with the Mersey bands, especially the Beatles.See: www.theo2.co.uk

12th to 16th July: Slapdash at the Old Vic Tunnels, London, £11/6.Slapdash is London’s festival of impro, featuring 15 of the country’s best improvisation groups in a weeklong celebration of the spontaneous. Sometimes funny, sometimes touching and always totally unpredictable, impro is theatrical alchemy. Each night, three groups show off their individual styles, before coming together at the end of the evening for the infamous Slapdash Jam!See: www.slapdashfestival.co.uk

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14th to 17th July: Latitude Festival, Henham Park, Southwold, prices vary. Latitude offers an amazing line-up of the best in music, literature, film, theatre, cabaret and comedy as ever, including Paolo Nutini, Suede, Eels, Omid Djalili, Duckie, Ralph Fiennes, Tim Key, and the intriguingly named Modern Toss Activity Centre in Pandora’s Playground. Bust out your bikini, don’t forget your wellies, and head to Suffolk.See: www.latitudefestival.co.uk

15th to 24th July: Shoreditch Festival, Regent’s Canal and surrounding spaces.Shoreditch Festival is an annual highlight of the East London cultural calendar that celebrates the network of canals linking communities from Shoreditch and beyond through to the Olympic Park. The festival will bring to life the waterside with film screenings, live music, dance performances, art commissions, fashion, literature and spoken word, health hubs, theatre shows, heritage trails, podcast expeditions, food markets and plenty more.See: www.shoreditchfestival.org.uk

23rd July: Prohibition, Grand Hall, Euston, £15. Prepare to step back in time as we revisit the roaring twenties! Swigging cunningly concealed cocktails and contraband liquor from teacups is the order of the day as we strive to evade the ever-beady eye of the law and indulge in a spot of illegal drinking, gambling and Charleston dancing. Live bands and cabaret acts are at hand to entertain even the most particular of cads and good time girls.See: www.prohibition1920s.com

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21st to 24th July: Port Eliot Literary Festival, Port Eliot, Cornwall, £35 to £140. One of the most beautiful literary festivals in the world, Port Eliot is a weekend in Cornwall with a varied line-up of big names in music, fashion, food, film and literature. The open-air cinema is curated by Martin Scorsese, and includes classics The Red Shoes and The Leopard. Music comes from the likes of British Sea Power and Hannah Peel; the word line-up features John Cooper Clarke and Hanif Kureishi. The Idler Academy is organised by Tom Hodgkinson, and includes a playwriting class from Jerusalem author Jez Butterworth. See: www.porteliotfestival.com

All July to September: Rooftop Film Club, Queen of Hoxton, £10.An exciting outdoor film experience showing classic, cult and recent film releases on the rooftop of the Queen of Hoxton. Our big screen, wireless headphones and comfy chairs will mean you can sit back, relax and experience film like never before in this completely unique urban environment, until September, five nights a week.For full film listings, tickets and further informationsee: www.thequeenofhoxton.co.uk

2nd July to 5th August: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, St Paul’s Churchyard, £15/10.A promenade production of Shakespeare’s magic-and-faeries romantic comedy.See: www.actorschurch.org or www.iristheatre.com

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27th July to 7th August: Film 4 Summer Screen, Somerset House, £16-20. Taking over the big screen at Somerset House again for July and August 2011, the Film 4 Summer Screen series brings a variety of classics and brand new films to audiences in the capital. The enormous open air screen takes up the whole of the fountain square in front of the Somerset House facade, and shows an inspired range of movies with something to please everyone. DJs will also be playing some of the best in new music, plus there are behind the screen talks hosted by BAFTA.See: www.somersethouse.org.uk/film

2nd to 6th August: Great British Beer Festival, Earls Court, £6-23. Get some yeasty culture at this annual Beer Festival, and sup the UK’s finest ales from small breweries to some of Britain’s best-known beers.See: www.gbbf.camra.org.uk/home

3rd August, 7.30pm : YARN presents The Special Relationship, Concrete Bar, Shoreditch, £5.The Special Relationship literary variety night features turns from regulars Jarred McGinnis and Sam Taradash, plus guests Nii Ayikwei Parkes and award-winning cartoonist Harry Venning, who will be teaching audience members ... well, how to be a cartoonist.See: www.yarnfest.com

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4th August to 4th September: Free Theatre at The Scoop, South Bank, FREE. Get your thesp on at The Scoop throughout August 2011 when both kids’ and adults’ shows are put on every week, including Brecht’s The Mother and Around the World in 80 Days. Lucky theatre-loving Londoners can catch free shows at The Scoop as part of the More London Free Festival.See: www.morelondon.co.uk/scoop.html

19th to 29th August: London Latin Festival, various venues and prices.Celebrate the passion and excitement of Latin dance at this ten-day festival, featuring everything from salsa to bachata, via Latin Hustle and Zouk-Kizomba-Lambada.See: www.thelondonlatinfest.com

28th August: 3pm, Storytails, The Drop, Stoke Newington, FREE.The Sunday afternoon literary event returns in August with readings of short stories and novel extracts from up and coming London authors you’ll wonder why you haven’t heard of. The vibe is relaxed and entry is free, so just turn up and enjoy.See: www.storytails.org

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EDITOR IN CHIEF AND PUBLISHER: ERIC AKOTO

EDITOR: KATY DARBY

CONTRIBUTING EDITOR: SOPHIE LEWIS

ONLINE EDITOR: LAURA HUXLEY

EVENTS EDITOR: ALEX JAMES

CREATIVE DIRECTOR: LISA THOM

CREATIVE INTERN: LUKE BRIGHT

This selection is copyright © 2011

Litro Magazine is published by Ocean Media Books Ltd

LITRO MAGAZINE IS 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 THINK OF IT AS A SMALL FREE BOOK.

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www.wellcomecollection.org/dirt

LITRO | 108

GOD BLESS AMERICA

He starts to hear the stuttering sirens in the distance; as he looks south down the block he sees the flashing red and white and disco lights lighting up Eleventh Avenue. He raises the iPhone in his hand and flags the ambulance down.

The kind French girl has started to cry. “Amadine, he’s not breathing, he’s not.”

- His first dead body by Kele OkerekePage 6

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