3:AM Magazine
Whatever it is, we're against it.
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Latest posts
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Q&A: Jeremy Fernando, The Adventures of Brandy & Bach
All I can really say is about my writing, my approach to writing, and the writing I try to make is: writing is my primary mode of not just expressing thought, but of thinking itself. And, whenever attempting to write, I try to maintain the possibility of conceiving writing as…
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Brandy & Bach meet a dog
‘So who is walking whom ...’, Brandy mutters with a huff, her whiskers tingling in the air as if having a life of their own, ‘can you ever tell with people. And dogs.’ It is often difficult to tell if she were asking a question or making a statement. Of fact. Even if only her…
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Kubrick Red
When he was 10 years old, Simon Roy was home alone in Quebec skipping through the TV channels when he alighted on a scene from a film where a man is showing a woman and her young son around a huge food storeroom in a hotel and, as he’s showing them around, he telepathically asks…
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Drippings
There is still a bit, I tell him, just a little bit, left in me, trickling out, it’s still trickling out of me, but soon there won’t be any left. It’s leaking, I tell him, the person sat opposite, trickling away, down my leg, pooling around my feet and across the pavement. It’s…
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Yellow Bucket is for Kitchens
Post-it Notes from Underground is not without drudge, humiliation and desperation (“I’m 64 and I’m doing this job”, Simon frequently intones), but what could easily have been a dispatch from the cold terrain of capitalist realism quickly becomes, in Crump’s telling, a good…
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Photographing Phantasma
Last week, I received in the post a slim anonymous biography of an unknown – at least to me and until now – Japanese photographer, Toru Nakagami. The stamps and postmark were obscured and smudged, and I found no documentation within. Apparently born into the outcast Burakumin…
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Five Pink Ducks
Birthdays make room for hyperbole. Lee wants to use M’s as an excuse to write something worthy of the feelings she’s been harboring for her: Thank you for being the brightest star in my solar system . But when she considered tracing those words on the blank inside of the card…
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Me & Tina
Twenty-three days into the 1980s & Dad gripped Mum’s hand as she screamed, the midwife continuing her calm advice on how to breathe, how to push, how Mum should try & do both while not ripping her perineum during my little sister’s home birth, with me there too, I was, or…
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Who’s To Say?: Life and Form in Life of M
This latest work is in some sense “about” a movie star; at any rate, it’s the angle that Cusk’s publishers (understandably) and critics (less understandably) have worked in their selling and reading of the book. It’s an approach that misses rather more than it captures, however,…
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What Do We Really Know of Birds and Men?
The man is a rough bastard, a brute. And yet Stuart seems so preoccupied with the fact that “I did nothing to make Dad proud of me in his lifetime.” There is something devastating in this. The desire for a father’s approval seems to survive even when the father himself offers so…
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The Surviving Cells (Extract)
Even after her husband died, she did not get mad, did not sue the hospital for negligence, or write any of the doctors a spiteful email. She just took the bad news home with her and lived with it. Now she has even brought her son back to the same doctor, after everything that…
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South Side Stories
The new kid Herman had this proud smile of rotting teeth. We were in the second grade and my teeth were crooked. I was embarrassed to smile. Herman’s teeth were falling out of his head, but he didn’t care what anyone thought. The teacher sat Herman next to me and he soon passed…
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Zizek at the Cricket Club
On Thursday we went down with some friends for a chicken burger and chips. At 8 o’clock, they pick a name at random from the membership list and if you’re in the club, you win a grand, so the place was chocka. We sat in the back room, where the old people gather to talk about…
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Off Grid
It’s a sky-blue day. Fern leaves spike as I wade in. Strands of grasses and stray ears of wheat weave. Nubs of rosehips bristle on hedges. From the thick nettles bunched around my knees, I could make soup. I could use dandelions even if the blackberries are frizzled after months…
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The Hurrying Day
The mirror says he’ll do. More than do. He’s made an effort though whether it’s in the right way he can’t tell. Too formal or not? On stage, years fell away and he knew he looked pretty good for his age. In real life he’s revealed. He’ll show he still cares. She’ll see him as he…
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In Memoriam, Deirdre Shanahan
Towards the end of August, I received the news that Deirdre Shanahan had passed away unexpectedly whilst abroad. Deirdre was a talented and dedicated writer of fiction—short fiction in particular—with an impressive track record as well as great promise. At the time of her death,…
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The Annihilating Now: An Interview with Gerry Feehily
I was in the Spice of Life, this once gothy (but no longer), punky pub at Cambridge Circus, London, waiting to meet some Irish goth punks I was in a band with. We were called the Fireworks Factory. This incredibly well-dressed man came up while I was having my pint and said, in…
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Quelque Chose de Tennessee
Ian and Véro are gonna get married one day. And then divorced later on, but they don’t know that now. Maybe Ian knows about them getting married, or maybe he doesn’t. They’ve hitched to this town from Paris, where things hadn’t gone well. Nowhere to stay after Véro’s cousin ran…
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Second World
“You know,” he said, “there’s a second world in which the Bartleby novella doesn’t exist.” A narrow beam of sunlight had found its way to Paul’s pint and it reflected back up on the ceiling, a small golden spot quivering like a jellyfish. Now, I knew Paul well enough to accept…
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Thanksgiving
It was hard, living on a hillside in Los Feliz, in a rented house with walls of glass, not to imagine the mountains surrounding the city burning. As if in a nightmare of perpetual fire. Lurking within the benign appearance, the appearance even of beauty, the beauty itself was…