Hello! Apologies for the break in service but we are now back up and running again and transmitting to you straight outta Guernsey. Digestive Press has upped sticks and moved from Manchester and is settling into its new HQ. There’s a new story for you to read below and more on the way soon. For now though, tchiri!
Herman: Whenever I go outside it starts to rain. It begins to spit when I put my shoes on and by the time I get outside it has become a full-blown shower. If I take my shoes off again and stay inside the clouds disappear and the sun comes out. Sometimes I try to cheat it and run outside barefoot but that only holds the rain off for a moment. You may think that this is all in my head but you ask anyone and they’ll tell you - it always rains when Herman goes outside. Keep reading →
The stop-start drone of the lorry on the streets, coughing and wheezing along, the sound of wheels on pavement, the mechanical lurching, the shouts of burly binmen, the clap-flapping of lids… Huey Bucket awoke at six in the morning, naked, sweating and twenty-eight years old. He leapt out of bed. “The bins! The bins!” he cried, and ran downstairs, waking his wife in the process. “Huey! Huey! It’s only Tuesday!” she shouted after him before collapsing back to sleep. But Huey had already streaked through the house and was in the front yard, dragging their wheelie onto the road ready for collection. It was not until he was stood stark naked in the street, a street suspiciously empty of black wheelie bins, that he realised - it was Tuesday, and he had done it again. Keep reading →
The earth does not orbit the sun
And the seasons do not change.
Days do not last twenty four hours
Miscalculations have been made.
The clouds do not bring the rain,
The world is neither flat nor round.
Whether we speak, shout, or clap
It is impossible to make a sound.
We are not young when we are born
We do not die when we get old.
The only way to continue now is to
Forget all you have ever been told.
The first night he slept in the new house there was no electricity. Each creak and creep of the bed told small histories. And the shadows from the streetlamps showed in the night dust all of the things that had ever been lost in the house. Keep reading →
At 8am on Thursday 12th June people across the city awoke, rubbed their eyes and tried to understand why it was not 7am. They had been fished from their dreams an hour late and now fuzzily tried to work out what had happened. An hour had slipped by without notice and, having been asleep at the time, no one had any idea how it had happened.
“I told you no one would notice,” I said, as we drove for the hills. “Have we got any biscuits left?”
“A few.” Rachel handed me a bourbon and took one for herself. We had been on the road since five, our little van putt-putting its way up the motorway, weighed down by the swag in the back. Supplies were depleted and we were both tired. Keep reading →
Eating Faces
Eating faces
Is a lot like
Collecting whisky.
You keep the
Best ones, eat
The nice ones
And don’t touch
The bad ones.
And they taste
Good with ice.
Young Mornings
When young mornings
Stretch their side by side yawns
To wake you up, the day thrums
And gets started with half lights,
Creaky bathtubs and hair dryers
Until young mornings become
Promising young afternoons.
George was an empty vessel
With an empty heart and an empty head.
Inside of him was light and spacious
But unused he would be better off dead.
Looking for a hollow human body
There arrived an ambitious swarm of bees
Who moved in and learnt the controls
To make George walk, jump and sneeze.
News of this strange residence spread
And attracted more like-minded bees
To come and find new homes and jobs
In George’s intestines, ears and knees. Keep reading →
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