Fiction
Read some examples of Alison's fiction below
Alison writes a range of flash fiction and shorts. She was nominated for the such-and-such prize in 2010 for her piece called 'piece title' and has read her work at a number of places in London, such as...
Lord Byron
I was at the swimming pool the other day and who should appear but Lord Byron. I knew it was him by his profile, his turban and his palsied hoof. I was thrilled and tried to sidle up to him in the water - I wanted to ask him about... Read more...
The White Peacocks
Digby ruined the white peacocks for me. There I was, pencil poised over my sketchbook as the pride of peafowl came strolling through the great park of Flintlock Hall. One paused near me and spread its tail and it was … just awesome but I couldn’t focus on its beauty,... Read more...
The Burning Day
Baking dunes, silent pignut trees, marram grasses wilting, even the guns from the army camp are stilled. The Irish Sea balmy, green waves holding me like a mother and my tiny red haired daughter roasting as I swam. The heat like a hammer stupefied us as we sheltered from the... Read more...
Homecoming
When I came to Zamitaze the city walls were hung with corpses and red flowers and as I entered under the East gate I could hear a terrible wailing and crying. A guard saluted me when he saw I was the wife of Basha Ben and led my rickshaw and... Read more...
Trapped
If I could save one thing it would be my mirror for it is magic and in its silver depths my lover swims, trapped and sighing, always sighing for he wants the sun to warm his spindly legs and tint his skin for he has grown pale and wan. Five... Read more...
First Love
When I was twelve, on the cusp of illusion I bought Dracula at a jumble sale and reclining on the sofa, turned my head from the blue lough winking outside my window and read. Soon I was in Transylvania in a mountain vastness, in a castle courtyard looking up at... Read more...
Coincidence
Was it a coincidence that he was sitting in the lounge of the Europa hotel in Belfast, a hotel infamous for being the most bombed hotel in Europe as it was the hostelry of choice for the lovey BBC journalists and other media whores who were its main customers during... Read more...
Mushrooming
Pale morning, the sea flat and the fields above Lacy’s Hill damp with dew, Shush, they can hear you coming, Mother said. What the mushrooms can hear us? I asked. Of course she whispered, holding her wicker basket and creeping like a commando. I was surprised she had not camouflaged... Read more...
Ennui after Walter Sickert
So it comes to this: second floor, two rooms, me and Tubby. Outside it is nearly dark, Camden gritty with coal smoke and a fog rolling over London from the stinking river; the house rattles from the trains. Tubby’s all right – he’s got his pipe and beer and a... Read more...
Reflections
The prophet Orwell said you get the face you deserve at fifty. Now, it’s true I’ve led a dissolute life, hedonism pursued wildly by a coach and four with James never sparing the horses so that now, in the morning mirror, when I see Keith Richards looking back at me... Read more...
Vigilance
You didn’t chub the fecking door, it was wide open and my ipad sitting out for all the thieves in North West London to nick, and my guitar and amp and not to mention my pearls, deep sea dived from PRIMARK’S lush sea beds and a leg of lamb, still... Read more...