MIR Issue 4 - First lines

The Enigmatic Art of Self-Criticism by Joyce Carol Oates
Self-criticism, like self-administered brain surgery, is perhaps not a good idea.

The Cock Thief by Parselelo Kantai
John Naiguran woke up suddenly and blinked, adjusting to the dimness inside the bus.

Six Pitches by Nadia Crandall
Charmian was my climbing partner for the week and I didn’t like her much.

Bus Ticket Revisited by Zoë Fairbairns
One evening in 1974, I was sitting on a train on the London Underground, trying to write a short story.

Dead Weight by Elizabeth Sarkany
A dog lay dying in the road outside my house.

Paroxysm by Lucy Roeber
In the waiting room of a Harley Street clinic, a woman perches on the edge of a green armchair.

I Think It's for Lindsay by James Vincent
Mum’s got the biggest voice in the flats.

Look Out by Jaime Hernandez

Happiness by Michelle Singh
The saddest part of all came after she’d had the baby and they’d taken the obligatory homecoming photographs.

The Red Shoes by T. Rawson
In a cupboard, in a house, a pair of discarded shoes rest ashamed in the top right-hand corner underneath a paper bag filled with sanitary towels.

A New Gravestone for an Old Grave by David Bezmozgis
Shortly before Victor Shulman was to leave on his vacation his father called him at the office to say that Sander Rabinsky had died.

On Thursdays We Go to the Allotment by Hilary Wilce
On Thursdays we go to the allotment. You may think this sounds easy, but you have no idea.

White Noise by Rohan Kar
What would you say to a person who asks you to scatter their ashes on the Tomb of the Christ when they die?

Broaching the Subject by David John Soulsby
I steal. But it’s not like it’s a major problem or anything.

’Til the Man Comes Around by Nik Korpon
A hot dry wind blows dust, dirt and sun-yellowed Marlboro boxes down Lawton Street in Ningunita, Texas; past the carcass of Pete’s Gas Pit and the unused pumps that look like rusted tombstones, abandoned ten years ago when Pete and his old lady Mary moved to an old folks home in Florida; past Sharp Shooters gun range and what’s left of the full-body targets that wear ten-gallon wren nests on their heads; past Betty and her Lone Star Diner and its cracked-vinyl booths that don’t have but four rears in them a week; past Charlie Miller standing on the wood deck of Miller’s General Store.

Gardening by Tom Gauld

The Exiles by Danny Birchall
‘The thing I don’t get about London,’ said Nina, ‘is the squares.’

My Side of the River by Samanthi Perera
The river is high this evening.

Hard to Explain Funny by Rosie Rogers
Mum reckons Terry Wogan’s her soulmate.

A Game of Cards by Rose Tremain
Let me tell you the story of my friend, Anton Zwiebel.

Things You Think You Need by Jennifer Payne
‘Will you please brush your teeth?’

Museum of Unwantables by Gabriela Blandy
The museum has burnt-out matches, broken flowerpots, and knives blunter than fingers.

Balcony View by Laura Williams
Becky is on a balcony, five floors up in a wide block of flats.

Good People by David Foster Wallace
They were up on a picnic table at that park by the lake, by the edge of the lake, with part of a downed tree in the shallows half hidden by the bank.

When Your Mother Dies by Paul Ryan
When your mother dies, you think it will be announced on the ten o’clock news.

The Second Chance by Jill McGivering
In eleven years, this was the first time Raj had been summoned to the Governor’s office.