
On this month’s episode, host Nicole Flattery is joined by writer James Hudson to read and discuss his short story ‘Dog Story’ from our Summer 2025 edition.

I remember hearing the screams of the jumpers as I gathered greasy paper plates and empty crisp packets. The lake stays cold all year round, colder than the sea, so even in the middle of a heatwave the water is a shock. People shriek as they plunge and they shout when they surface.

There is a separateness when you are working in a job that is not writing. That special part of you that likes to create doesn’t leak out, doesn’t have to expend any of its energy: it’s a golden pie floating within you. The pie gets cracked open in teaching and publishing and literary-related things, which can be bad, and sometimes good.

On this month’s episode, host Nicole Flattery is joined by writer Tenaya Steed to read and discuss her story ‘Water Lillies’ featured, in the latest issue of The Stinging Fly magazine, Issue 52 Volume Two.

‘They wait at the lights. The way he presses the button on the pedestrian crossing is slow and deliberate. She shivers. If he was her husband, he would put an arm around her, rub briskly up and down her back to warm her up. But he is not her husband.’

‘If autobiographical writing is an attempt to fix a life inside language, frank: sonnets and Modern Poetry are both convincing arguments for the absolute impossibility of ever really succeeding in doing so. Instead, they offer an alternative: debris, glimpses, constellations, ghosts.’


I remember hearing the screams of the jumpers as I gathered greasy paper plates and empty crisp packets. The lake stays cold all year round, colder than the sea, so even in the middle of a heatwave the water is a shock. People shriek as they plunge and they shout when they surface.

‘They wait at the lights. The way he presses the button on the pedestrian crossing is slow and deliberate. She shivers. If he was her husband, he would put an arm around her, rub briskly up and down her back to warm her up. But he is not her husband.’

‘He knows his brother is driving. The two of them are in their mother’s car and his brother is next to him. He rests his head against the passenger window and closes his eyes. There are bumps in the road. His head bangs against the window but there is no pain.’

“The children step forward one by one, and say, ‘I’m special because…’ and one by one they fill in why with brave, loud voices. They’re too young to hide who they are. The people watching them know them better than they’ll ever know themselves.”

‘From inside this hell, in this dazed state of terror, I write to you about my adventure yesterday, offering a testimony of defeat from a man who longs for a hot bath like the ones he used to take before the war.’

‘[N]one of us likes to think we live and have our days in a time more stupid than others we might have lived in. All previous ages were the dark ages, we like to believe, and we are the new and enlightened ones.’

I remember hearing the screams of the jumpers as I gathered greasy paper plates and empty crisp packets. The lake stays cold all year round, colder than the sea, so even in the middle of a heatwave the water is a shock. People shriek as they plunge and they shout when they surface.

There is a separateness when you are working in a job that is not writing. That special part of you that likes to create doesn’t leak out, doesn’t have to expend any of its energy: it’s a golden pie floating within you. The pie gets cracked open in teaching and publishing and literary-related things, which can be bad, and sometimes good.

‘They wait at the lights. The way he presses the button on the pedestrian crossing is slow and deliberate. She shivers. If he was her husband, he would put an arm around her, rub briskly up and down her back to warm her up. But he is not her husband.’