girls too proud to climb trees

It being a bank holiday in the UK means that the world is off-kilter, every day for the next four will feel like one smeared Sunday, and the only thing you’re sure of is that you’re probably going to overindulge somehow.

As such, ETTO is a little fragmented today.


Cathy Ulrich has, again, an excellent short story in Cotton Xenomorph: Being The Murdered Lover. Here’s the start:


The story ripples out from the murdered corpse and reflects on the ways in which the murderer created a perception of the woman for his own gaze — an out of character photo that came to be the most seen image of her. There’s an implied victory on the part of the murdered, in that her death poisons the way everyone is seen around her — arguing somehow that even as a plot point there is still some agency.


I have a story in Burning House Press this week. You should read it, because it is very rare that someone actually publishes something I send them 🙂

I was going to make a joke at the start that this is what we’d be doing a reading of this week, but I didn’t think I could take the panic unsubscribes.


In The Offing we have a couple of micro fictions by Ruth LeFaive. Here’s We Were Taught To Serve God and Country


I enjoy the exploration of the domestication of the forest through some sort of Brownies organisation which is at its heart a fabrication — fresh smelling kindling from the dryer against the assumedly unfresh nature for example. I feel it’s a critique of the expectations set by such organisations — that the set of tasks are not directly related to the taught outcomes. A kick out against an unsatisfactory experience which is made ironic by its directly natural setting.


This week’s song is Sorrow by The National — and in trying to find a version for you to listen to (which doesn’t involve you popping on over for an evening of listening to depressing shit) I found something pretty magic. It’s the right song, but a live version (no, don’t leave) and it’s 6 hours long.

Apparently The National were asked to perform Sorrow for 6 hours straight, uninterrupted, at MoMa. They seem to have done a pretty good job of it — even on the 90th plus time of playing the song in a row.


It’s in my honey, it’s in my milk


Thanks for reading this week’s slightly shorter than usually Etch To Their Own. It was dredged, confused and humble from the chest of @CJEggett and proof-read by no one. I had a dream that was quite scary while I was in it but I woke overjoyed because it was was so rich and real and symbolic. Hey, maybe we should? What if my heart is unhinged from the weight of my lice ridden wings? For real. The third gender. Please try to enjoy your nationally enforced frolic time — even if that mean seeing your family, staring at a grey and wild sea from inside beach hut to reading my tweets. As always, it would be cool if you could tell someone about this newsletter. Some examples: approach people at the garden centre, slip the attractive waitress the sign up form in a way that suggest it might be your phone number, tell people you match with on Tinder before blocking them, get an index card and pay to have it put up in the post office, inform you clients they need to sign up to be GDPR compliant, have it tattoo’d somewhere obvious but tasteful, when buying beeswax to do the counter-tops ask if they have anything for poetry on a friday, call your mother, get down on one knee and ask your closest cohabiter whether they’d like to sign up, leave it on a post it in a passive aggressive fashion for your flatmate, break in to the fortune cookie factory and make me fortunate.

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