Far Off Places

"Tonight she was going to see a unicorn, a real live one just like in the movies. She knew because Uncle Tom had said so. He'd said that every full moon the unicorns all came out to eat the apples in the old orchard. Mum had shushed him and said not to be so silly, but that's when he'd winked, right at her so she'd know for absolute sure it was true." Bizarre and beautiful bedtime stories from the wonderful Adam Barnett, originally published in 'The Back of Beyond' and 'Between the Leaves'. Music by Gurdonark.

"What do you wear to meet your lover's lover on an August summer's evening that calls for light clothes, light make up. Lightness? When all you want to do is hide away alone and allow your thoughts to rise in the darkness as you try to work out what just happened. She is on her way, in a taxi, to my house. She is wearing a fitted black fifties repro dress, red hot lipstick and is carrying a bottle of Veuve Cliquot. Can you imagine a more glamorous or confident image than this?" The latest news from the magazine, alongside short fiction by Karen French. Music by Gurdonark.

Poet Georgi Gill met up with our Jess to do some bird-watching from an Edinburgh tower. We also establish the rules for the 'port of rejection' and listen to the most poetic shipping forecast ever to come out of dry land. Poetry by Georgi Gill, music by Gurdonark,

A slightly different podcast this time round: we chat to our (fairly...) new editors and fellow mischief makers about their website The Rookery in the Bookery and -- drum roll please! -- announce our latest call for submission. Music by Gurdonark.

The Far Off Places podcast is back! For real this time. We introduce new podcast host Jessica Johanneson Gaitan and talk about why reading out loud is special -- and how it can go wrong. Plots are hatched. Coffee is drunk. Poetry is read. Poetry by Jake Reynolds and Juliet Wilson. Music by Gurdonark

Happy Bloom's Day! It's 110 years since Leopold Bloom and Stephen Daedalus wandered through Dublin, going to funerals and brothels and forgetting to buy soap. We're celebrating with a podcast dedicated to James Jocye's Ulysses, presented by Far Off Places editor Annie Rutherford. Expect amazing writing, confusing pronouns, and very bad Spanish.

"The insistent door knocker pounds its way from the other side of the house up the stairs. It feels like three in the morning. No hum of passing traffic. I roll over in bed. 11.40 glows green. Peering out, I can see snow softening suburban sounds. I look at Jamie's unfilled half of the bed; my stomach churns. More banging invades the snowy silence before I reach the hall. The opaque glass panel in the door hints at a figure, slight, practically childlike. I'm disappointed. Orange from the street lamp catches the snow falling onto whoever's out there, motionless except for a hand raised to knock again." An unseasonal tale of snow and sleepless nights, by Martin Redfern, read by Trevor Fountain. Music courtesy of Gurdonark (http://ccmixter.org/files/gurdonark/34368).

"Monster had come to Boy to scare him, as was the agreement between monsters and children, but when he arrived the worst had already happened and Boy had no want or need of fear. Monster found pity and wound his thick tail around Boy's ears to muffle the sound of sobbing Father from the bathroom below. Boy named Monster, and Monster named Boy, and that was that." (The Space Beneath, Joely Badger) Learn how to blow out the stars, burp the alphabet and make your last lie count with these unexpected stories written by Joely Badger and read by Annie Rutherford. Music courtesy of Gurdonark (http://ccmixter.org/files/gurdonark/34368).

'The mother wakes early, fumbling for her only pair of heels by the light of a cancerous moon. Glimpsing its baldness, she feels stifled, her chest tight with that old, rising swell. She tries to pry open the window, searching the dark for signs of rain, but it sticks and she strains, making too much noise. The little face, a second moon, hangs in her doorway, wondering why.' (Pandora, Kristina Wojtaszek) The Far Off podcast is back! Excuses and exciting things, plus extraordinary prose by Kristina Wojtaszek. Music by Gurdonark.

A merry Christmas one and all! We have some seasonal and rather less seasonal short prose from Dave Clark and Liam Hogan. Creepy Christmas music by SackJo22. To be consumed with Christmas cake.

"Always keep your readers close. If possible, keep one in every room, so that when you wake up too early, instead of waiting for a cue, you can simply wave a hand past the calamity of your own words and receive an instant kick of other, much more pleasant ones." --The Readers, J Johannesson Gaitan Join us for a cuppa and a tale from our kitchen reader. You know you want to. Short prose by J Joannesson Gaitan. Music by Gurdenark.

"Ellis had slept under the bed for a week now. Ever since the windstorm had come, she'd been frightened. Not afraid of anything in particular, no concrete fear. She wasn't afraid of wind, after all — she'd played with wind, throwing leaves at it to watch them dance and laughing, hands shielding eyes, at sand spun in whirlpools of air. The wind she was used to didn't bring down trees, smash greenhouses and steal away the neighbours' cat." (Windstorm, Suky Goodfellow)

"Pumpkins — the only fruit that rhymes with oranges. When I was young, we had none; we carved turnips, with a lid which stank in the candle's heat." (All Hallow's Eve, Colin Will)

"Excuse me," I said. The Policeman leant forward over the counter. "Yes boy, what can I do for you?" "I wonder, have you seen a Bogle?" "A Bogle? Have you lost one?" "No, no, but I'm looking for one." "Well, nobody has been in here looking for Bogles in years. I'll look in the book." And the Policeman got a great big book out and heaved it onto the counter, licked his finger and flicked through the pages. "I thought so, the last Bogle reported missing was, um, Good heavens! That's a long time ago." And he leant forward over the counter. "Where did you lose him? It is a him, I suppose - on a walk, was it? That's the usual place." We're going a-bogling today. Make yourself a hot chocolate and warm your hands around your mug as you listen to a children's story for adults by Alexander Hamilton. Oh, and, did I mention that this is the first of our podcasts showcasing work from our third issue (out soon!) Under the Bed?

"It was as if I had been in a story, walking down a lane to a house and a door, with cut-out birds and cut-out stairs." -Red Riding, Chelsea Cargill. Whimsy of a poetical nature written and read by Chelsea Cargill. Hoorah! Music courtesy of Gurdenark.

"There are two things you should know when facing down a leopard. One: Don't run. Two: Don't run. And three, which I know I didn't mention earlier, but am going to list anyway because facing down a leopard does strange things to structured thoughts: don't think of that crazy friend of yours who calls leopards "Leo (after that Titanic heartthrob) - pard (you know, like padre)," as though he's been on first name basis with these dark-spotted, sandy-haired, long-tailed and entirely too-sharp-clawed animals since they were in diapers." -Pallavi Rao Short prose and bad jokes from the inimitable Pallavi Rao. Read by the superlative Ceris Aston and hosted by [insert adjective here] Annie Rutherford. Oh, and we have orange mints. Music courtesy of Gurdenark.

"The airport road is one of those roads that are perpetually overcast and blustery regardless of season. Empty crisp packets and newspapers tumble incessantly. A steady stream of traffic is flanked by tired industrial units. Everyone drives. No-one walks down the airport road unless they are a little shady or very poor. When you're driving down the airport road and see someone walking, even if you have a hundred and one thoughts nagging for attention inside your head, some corner of your mind will ask, where is that person going and what are they up to?" Short prose and an off-the-cuff interview with Niall Foley. Music courtesy of Gurdenark.

"The van was old and threatened to break down before destination. Among clangs and shrieks it struggled across the desert making its way through the haze that blurred the horizon, the only discernible border that obviously moved farther and farther away as we got closer. A pitiless chase for the shattered vehicle and our longing for arrival. Tiny grains of sand continuously hit our sweaty faces through the open windows sticking to them like dead mosquitoes; they flew in with the vehemence of a sand storm despite the low speed. The heat was suffocating but the dramatic poignancy of the arid landscape captured us completely." Short prose by Olivia Arieti and poetry by Pete Thompson. Music courtesy of Gurdenark.

"The sky glows orange in the distance and as we walk I feel the ground begin to ramp. The smell of birch in the air, sweet and light. According to the map there's a good campsite nearby but no one seems ready to stop. I mean sure, my boots are beginning to hurt but there's nothing like that feeling when you get to the peak of a mountain: the way the Earth winds and dips below you; the pointed tops of a hundred trees; the sound of your voice echoing for miles." (Tennessee, Samuel Best.) Fantastic short prose from Samuel Best. Exquisite poetry from Gillian Craig and Jean Atkin. Bad jokes.

"It was a place where nothing, especially not the genuinely mundane, was allowed to be simply ordinary. Where a girl might arrive and find a doll's house awaiting her, perfect in every minute detail: with shingled roof, working lights and a kitchen with the same linoleum as in the beloved house. Where hospitals were strange resorts in which the only inconvenience was a perverse insistence by the staff on the eating of jelly. Where leather armchairs were inverted to become child-sized slides. And where ginger ale, placed in hollow-stemmed crystal glasses, became champagne." We built a sandcastle, went picking lemons and swam in the Canadian Pacific in Sarah Miles' moving tale of peeking behind the curtain.