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But if you can return to this sense of curiosity and wondering you had as a child, you can find a treasure trove of short story ideas to be found. Write a story about a receptionist who sees a colleague hang a new piece of art in their cubicle — one the receptionist recognizes as being famous for going missing a century ago. You need to consume great short stories in order to know what you enjoy about them.

Ready to start submitting your short story to writing contests? Looking for writing tips? So, you've decided to write a short story!

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Many a published author got their starts from publishing short stories. It's the perfect medium for so many authors: succinct, clear, character-driven, and brief Over 1, professional editors, designers, marketers and ghostwriters are available on Reedsy, come meet them.

How to come up with short story ideas

Learn more about Reedsy. We'll send you 5 prompts each week. The word count limit is 1k - 3k words and the deadline is every Friday. You do feel that gravitational pull. It's why I like suicide bridge [a bridge over the A1 in Haringey, between Archway and Highgate] so much, it feels like the gates of the city. When you stand on top, whether it's daytime or night, or shrouded in fog, you can still see Canary Wharf and The Shard when you're still pretty much in suburbia.

Real Lies does feel like music for a twisted head, the melancholy at the end of being high. TW: A lot of our tunes have been written on Sunday afternoons, and a lot of them sound like it. When you're hungover your sense of hearing is heightened, but at the same time half of your brain is missing because of the evening before. KK: There's an element of being our age in a city like London and having the interests and lifestyles that we do have, and you spend a lot of time occupying zones of time that maybe a lot of other people are shut off from.

When you've grown up and have kids to look after, those zones are dead to you, you can't occupy them any more. There is that space of being trapped in between, and occupying a niche in time that is off-limits to some people, and that's one of the privileges of being young and in a city, it's an incredibly exciting time, so you maximise it and you end up pushed into these weird buffer zones.

In another interview you talked about how smoking areas were coming-of-age confession booths.

I wanted to ask how Real Lies' music engages with how masculinity changes as you head through your 20s TW: A lot of it is to do with masculinity. To go back to the smoking area, the drop in 'Deeper' was recorded in smoking area in a club, I think the cover art really brings that vulnerability of masculinity out too. KK: [Masculinity] never gets enough attention.

It gets caricatured. People don't understand that there are nuances, not every man has to conform to type. There's nothing more offensive than those Ginsters adverts about Movember and how you need brown sauce to have a fucking sandwich. Come on mate. I find that very limiting. I think with the haircut thing [the sleeve artwork] there's the vulnerability, you're trusting a man with something that's quite important. TW: It's a time that you're looking at yourself in a mirror and somebody is running a razor-sharp blade around the side of your head.

Its about trust, it's about masculinity, it's the the central themes of our band. TW: We've got our night called Congress. It's influenced by Boys Own from the late 80s, early 90s, that fanzine culture, which again taps into the masculinity thing, the idea that you can go to a football match on a Saturday afternoon, go to a club on a Saturday night, and on a Sunday sit down and write a song about it and it doesn't necessarily sound like the fucking Fratellis.

KK: I think a lot of bands in London have tried to misappropriate this fraternity thing in recent times. What they've ended up settling on is this bro, dudism, talking like surfers How do these people's girlfriends get off?

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They sit around and smoke weed all day, fucking potheads watching cat videos on Buzzfeed, talking to each other like Americans. It's the ultimate defeat to your past, acting like your imagined childhood self, a doppelganger that existed in suburban DC in ' They're corrupting their own youth. The auto-pederasts of Dalston must be purged from daylight, send them packing back to the countryside with their cheese and their fucking eggs.

Weird Lies | Arachne Press

Imagine if I'd put Pavement on then? I'd have been dumped on the A M without a fucking hope in hell of getting home. I'd have been a fly-tipped mattress. The next Congress takes place on December 19th, full info here. Danny, he is called. I am not sure how reasonable he is. When I first arrived here he engaged me in conversation. This was before I had been briefed by the doctors. I told him the truth, as I then believed it to be.

I am Professor Martin Heriot, I said.

In June twenty-one-sixty-three I, as the project leader at the Fysiska Institutionen at the University of Lerwick, submitted to an innovative treatment devised by our researchers. It was intended, I said, that I should achieve retrograde motion in the temporal plane. I told him that it had been intended that I should travel back in time. And that it appeared that that objective had been achieved. Eric Jones, self-styled cult survivor and webmaster of silentgabrielisanevilbastard.

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Those swine wrecked my life. Before I joined them, I had a job. I had a wife. I had access to my kids. More than that, I had self-respect. But a year with them and I was a raving nutter, reduced to living on the streets. You would not believe some of the things I saw. And that Silent Gabriel, he should be strung up for some of the things he done. I guarantee you that.

You could go by their appearance in posters from their heyday, but decades had passed, and who knew how they might age, if at all? Krond bounded over to them, his clawed arms more than lengthy enough to surround them both. The Wolfman gave nothing away, his eyes hidden behind expensive sunglasses. Day 1 I have been kidnapped by the English, whipped and smacked inside a box then carted to Hell, a stinking, rainy, festering, muddy-muck, flea-ridden, soiled, bubonic hideousness of a Hell.

I have been simply kidnapped, stolen across the sea and locked in the Tower. There are three lions already imprisoned here and when I called to them for some sort of explanation, they roared me quiet because I had woken them. Shackles were placed upon my feet as result, these jailors declaring me unruly. The cretins! There is such a disgusting smell in this place. They have constructed a box for me to sleep in, no bigger than half of me. A guest blog from Liam Hogan Arachne Press.

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✍️ 200+ Short Story Ideas (and How to Come Up With Your Own)

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