New Fiction

We’re elated to announce the publication of Christopher Nosnibor’s new book, The RAGE Monologues, in print, today. To celebrate the launch, we’re offering it at a special offer dicount price with 25% off the retail price of £5.99 (or domestic currency equivalent) for a limited period only.

The blurb: Modern life is full of niggles and frustrations. It’s also bursting with ballaches and tempestuous turmoils on a global scale. What is it that winds you up or grinds your gears? Sometimes, it’s an accumulation of the little things that push you to, or over, the brink. So, what gets under your skin, gnaws away at your gut, and drives you crazy? For Christopher Nosnibor, the answer is pretty much everything. Evolved as a spoken word project over the course of three years, ‘The Rage Monologues’ is the hoarse, enraged, spittle-spraying voice of one man against the world. Politics, media, poetry, and post office queues – it’s open season in this collection of splenetic, profanity-laden tirades. By turns amusing, sad, and simply ire-fuelling, ‘The Rage Monologues’ is a relentless, uncompromising, and eye-poppingly vitriolic tour de force.

The cover art (click on the image to purchase):


Rage Book Cover copy

The RAGE Monologues is also available as an ebook, here, and will be available both digitally and in print via all on-line retail channels soon.

We are proud to announce that an expanded edition of Christopher Nosnibor’s Rage Monologues, previously only available as a limited-edition pamphlet at his live performances, will soon be available as a trade paperback and e-book.

Check the burb here:

Modern life is full of niggles and frustrations. It’s also bursting with ballaches and tempestuous turmoils on a global scale. What is it that winds you up or grinds your gears? Sometimes, it’s an accumulation of the little things that push you to, or over, the brink. So, what gets under your skin, gnaws away at your gut, and drives you crazy? For Christopher Nosnibor, the answer is pretty much everything. Evolved as a spoken word project over the course of three years, The Rage Monologues is the hoarse, enraged, spittle-spraying voice of one man against the world. Politics, media, poetry, and post office queues – it’s open season in this collection of splenetic, profanity-laden tirades. By turns amusing, sad, and simply ire-fuelling, The Rage Monologues is a relentless, uncompromising, and eye-poppingly vitriolic tour de force.

Clock the cover art here:

Rage Book Cover copy

Dates, prices, and perhaps some excerpts to follow. Keep watching this space.

Stuart Bateman’s debut novel, Grind, is published as an ebook via Smashwords today.


What had be wanted to be when he grew up? Adam struggled to remember. Probably an astronaut or racing driver, the same as any other kid. But reality had put paid to those vague ambitions early in life. Average in every way, the opportunities simply hadn’t presented themselves. He’d done well enough in school and sixth form college, before drifting his way to a mediocre degree at a mediocre university. In this respect, Adam represented the British middle class everyman.

Now, in his mid thirties in a low-level management job in a large corporation, Adam Johnson is at something of a crossroads. Single and terminally bored, he’s concerned that life is passing him by, while all around him his friends and colleagues are busy living and experiencing the highs, the lows and the dramas of life.

Grind is what happens when Generation X drifts into day-jobs. With the ennui of Michel Houellebecq’s Whatever and the bleakness of Michael Bracewell’s Perfect Tense, Stuart Bateman’s debut novel captures succinctly the emptiness of everyday existence in the early 21st century.


Grind Cover Shot Red with Text 3 copy


Get Grind for $3.99 here:


Amazon Kindle and print editions are planned for early 2015.

The debut novel by Clinicality founder and editor Stuart Bateman is set for publication later this year. More clinical than brutal, it’s called Grind: A Novel. This is the first excerpt from it to be published anywhere, ever.


It was after half past six on a Thursday night at the end of May, and Adam was still at his desk, and the tables, graphs and spreadsheets on his monitor were beginning to blur. All of the other workers had left, the last to leave the floor had been Neil Benson, a renowned workaholic and famously single and friendless, married to his job and his vintage car. mid-50s, he still lived with his ageing mother and the sort of man who maintained a precision-combed side parting and wore vests under his cheap white short-sleeved shirts from Asda. Only the cleaner, Terry Fuckshit – so nicknamed on account of the fact he constantly cursed under his breath as he worked, invariably alternating between ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ or various adaptations thereof – remained. Adam watched for a short time as the grouchy middle-aged man worked his way down the office, using the same dirty cloth to wipe the surface of each desk as well as the buttons and handsets of each telephone. His bald head shone under the yellow-hued overhead lights. Out of earshot, Adam couldn’t hear his angry, bitter cursing. He rubbed his eyes and returned his focus to the screen. He kept his pupils glued there as the thick-necked man in a blue tunic came closer, utterances of filth audible beneath his breath.

“Fucking bastards,” he snarled. “Fucking crumbs and shit everywhere… fucking leaving half-empty cups on desks… shit… shitters…. bleeding fuckers…”

Adam acted as though he couldn’t hear, that he was so immersed in his work as to be oblivious.

“Working late, eh?” Terry Fuckshit barked as he smeared his dirt-encrusted cloth over the first desk in the row before Adam’s.

“Yeah,” replied Adam drably, not wanting to engage any more than was strictly necessary. Something about Fuckshit made Adam feel uncomfortable.

“’Ard luck.,” the cleaner commiserated gruffly. “I work late every fuckin’ night, mind,” he added with a clear resentment as he wiped streaks of murky water across the surface of the next desk.

Adam didn’t reply.

Soon, the cleaner was at his desk. “Wannit cleanin’?” Fuckshit asked, hefting the cloth in his hand, the tattoos on his knuckles spelling ‘HATE’. The faded blue ink was fuzzy round the edges, and Adam couldn’t help wondering if he’d done the work himself – and if he’d had the work done in prison.

“Er, no, it’s ok thanks,” Adam said, as lightly as he could muster.

“Suit yersself,” Fuckshit growled and moved on to the next desk.

When he’d completed his round of cursory germ-spreading desk-wiping, Fuckshit began vacuum cleaning the stained, staple-dotted carpet, cursing all the while, and Adam decided it was time to leave.

Clinicality Press are elated to announce that Karl van Cleave’s collection of short stories, entitled Incisions, Collisions and Aborted Missions will be published as an e-book via Amazon Kindle and Smashwords on 28th February 2012.

Van Cleave made his Clinicality debut in the Clinical, Brutal… anthology in 2012 and has since featured in the Clinicality blogzine. Incisions… contains 6 short and brutal stories and is Karl’s premiere solo publication. Written in blood with no detail too unpleasant, Karl’s writing is not for those with a delicate disposition.

The six stories are as follows:

Broken Wings
Screw I
Screw II

We’re giving away ‘Blades’ as a free taster over at Smashwords.

Incisions Cover copy

Incisions, Collisions and Aborted Missions will be priced at £3.99 on and (approximately) comparatively on international sites. Links to follow: watch this space.


Andy Devonshire

It took me a while to find a seat. The things above the seats weren’t working, and instead of showing which seats were available and which seats were reserved, and between which locations, they were all showing as simply ‘Reserved’. Really fucking helpful, that. I’d already walked more than halfway down the carriage before I realised this, but then all of the seats had been occupied by at least one passenger anyway. I try to avoid sitting next to strangers if I can help it.

Then I got lucky: a pair of seats, forward-facing, completely vacant, not even with anyone’s rubbish left on the seat or the pull-down tray / table thing. I took the window seat. I prefer window seats to aisle seats because in the aisle you invariable end up getting your toes trodden on even if you keep them under the seat in front. Otherwise, you get you shoulder knocked or your head bashed by someone lugging a bulging bag down the carriage. What to they think the luggage racks are for.

Still, I soon wished I’d taken the aisle seat and blocked off the access to the window seat. No sooner had I made myself comfortable and opened up my newspaper than some obese middle-aged hag with a bad perm plonked her immense arse in the seat beside me. She didn’t even fucking ask if it was taken. Just sat down, overhanging my seat by a good five or six inches, her upper arms as big as my thighs encroaching into my personal space. She was wheezing like a steam engine with the effort of simply getting down the carriage and sitting down. And she stank. I know, fat people always say that it’s a myth that fat people smell, and I’ll admit, not all of them do. But it seems that every time a wheezer parks themselves next to me on a train, they fucking honk. Even so, this one was bad.

I shunted myself over so I was pressed against the window, pulled my iPod from my pocket and shoved the phones deep into my ears before turning it up. Even then, the full-on metal racket of Ministry wasn’t enough to cover up the noise of her breathing. She pulled a Kindle from amidst the folds of flesh and I could see she was reading some trashy crime novel where the characters who work for CID have alliterative names. Probably some toss by Lee Child or another mass-production mainstream writer aimed at people with a reading age of ten. She was on chapter 85. I’m guessing they were short chapters, but even so. The physical act of reading was making her short on breath, and sweat even more judging by the aroma.

For a moment, I pictured the scene in which chapter 86 saw Brian Brown rocked up to find a fat, blubbery corpse lying on a station platform and their discussion as to whether or not it was murder or if the hulking beast had simply expired, her enlarged heart having given up trying to pump the blood round the miles of cholesterol-filled arteries, the strain being all too much. My mind began to run through the various ways I could do away with her and I found myself wondering which method would provide the greatest satisfaction. Part of me wanted to stab her, just to see if she’d deflate like a balloon when punctured.

The train arrived at my destination before I had the time to act on my desire to bludgeon her to death with my laptop or to ram her Kindle so far down her throat that she asphyxiated. I disembarked and couldn’t help feeling a bit cheated. Still, it was probably for the best.

She Loves Me. She Loves Me Not.

Andy Rigley

    “She loves me,” I say.
    I pause.
    “She loves me not.”
    I pause.
    I cut another fat pink petal from one of the two outstretched hands that are flower heads. There’s a muffled yelp and some thrashing. I didn’t think the plastic garden chair would hold out as long as it has with a fully grown man tied to it. I considered filming the whole thing in case I got a You’ve Been Framed Bloke Breaks Chair moment. But I wavered the two hundred an fifty quid in favour of anonymity.
    “She loves me,” I say again, and the man’s face, I swear, it looks like he’s trying to take a  dump out of his eye sockets. I laugh at the thought that he might force his own eyeballs right out onto his cheeks before we’re done. Wouldn’t that be a bonus.
    I place the B&Q branch loppers over his ring finger, and wiggle them ’til they’re good and tight against the knuckle. I never used these things before, but this is the third fat pink petal, and I’m getting the hang of them now.
    “You know?” I say. “Hayley bought me these.” I stare down the pristine green handles. “For Christmas. Said I should cut down those damned leylandii before the neighbours complained.” I sigh. “I bought her a year’s membership to a gym. Spa. Steam room. Circuits. God did she ever shut up about the circuits and how her thighs were real tight? I mean tight can you believe it?” I smile. “I guess of the two of us. Yes. You can believe it.”
    The guy in the chair whimpers like I’m putting too much pressure on his fat pink petal. Behind him is a trestle table covered in flake-skin paste from another job I didn’t finish. Wallpaper hangs sad, crying down the walls. The man, wow, I don’t even know his name, he’s whimpering and phooming and flumfing because his mouth is stuffed right to his throat with a pair of boxer shorts. And believe me when I say, that because I woke up in an empty bed again, they are not the cleanest shorts.
    As I crunch through another fat pink petal, it thumps into the floor and I think how, maybe, it’ll be my fucking job to clean the carpet. The man, he’s becoming weaker and it’s the first time since we started that I realise that he’s not crying. There are no tears. There’s snot and brown spittle hanging from his chin, but no real tears. Maybe his body is preserving fluids in case, well, in case the worse happens even more than the worse is already happening.
    The CD I’m listening to is skipping and I curse. It’s Duran Duran, Hungry like a like a like a lik lik lik a. I reach over and poke the off button with the loppers, smiling at how useful they’ve become.
    “Shit. Where were we?” I say. I have genuinely forgotten whether Hayley loved me or not.

By the time there’s only one fat pink petal left this man is grey. I mean proper blue-grey. But his eyes are still red and his snot is still very much green.
    “Look, mate,” I say wiping at the chrome ends of the loppers with a black, rose petal emblazoned bra that I bought for Hayley but that she never wore for me, “it might not be that bad. We could get to the end here and, well, maybe she loves me after all. Then we can forget this ever happened.”
    I snip off the man’s last pink petal and it flutters, I swear it actually flutters, down.
    “Fuck,” I say dropping the loppers. “Guess I wasted our time after all. Turns out the bitch doesn’t love me.”
    Do I see relief on his face? Do I feel it in mine? No more adjusting washing machine feet, or lopping hedges or wallpapering or painting.
    “You are now welcome to the bitch,” I say, and start to untie him.
    But something is bugging me and I reach for the loppers again.
    This man. This man who has been fucking my wife because I’m too lazy to do the fucking gardening or fucking cleaning or fucking, his eyes go even wider as he reads my grin.
    I yank down his trousers.

Short Term Effect

Johnny Webster


I was exhausted but equally buoyant after a successful presentation in Glasgow. It had been a long day – I had barely slept the night before and had been convinced that I hadn’t slept at all until I recalled dreams that had drifted through during the hours I had spent turning first one way and then the other in such a regular fashion that had I been a sausage I would have been cooked to an all-round even perfection, basted endlessly in my own sweat as it flooded uncontrollably from me to such an extent that I had decided that on my return home I would book an appointment with my GP with a view to tackling my anxiety. Anxiety in itself was nothing new to me, but the copious perspiration at the slightest sign of anything so much as resembling a stressful situation, or even one that required the smallest degree of energy and focus was a recent development and cause for concern.

Between the presentation and my train there had been time for a bite to eat and a couple of well-earned pints. I had consumed nothing but coffee and water – both in large quantities in an attempt to remain alert despite the sleep deprivation, which had left me feeling detached and strangely wired rather than tired, although I knew that wouldn’t last, and to rehydrate myself after the night’s sweat-fest. This was only proving partially successful, however: despite feeling relatively relaxed – I was well-prepared, after all – the water I was imbibing seemed to be flowing straight back out through my pores. Rather than taking the fluids into my system, I felt as though my skin had the retentive properties of a sieve, or perhaps a muslin straining bag used for making wine and preserves.

By the time I boarded my train, the adrenaline production, and consequently the flow of perspiration, had abated. I was tired, but yet still strangely alert. Too tired and disconnected to feel true elation, I felt like I was watching someone else in my shoes walk down the carriage to my reserved seat. Coach D, seat 38, aisle. Forward-facing, at least, even if the window seat was already occupied, meaning that I couldn’t spread out and truly unwind.

The occupant of seat 37 was a girl, blonde, slim, immersed in a crisp-looking copy of Mini Shopaholic by Sophie Kinsella. Seated directly beside her, I was unable to really take in any other details about her and I certainly wasn’t about to strike up a conversation. You can call me a book snob if you like but chick-lit is, to my mind, the lowest of the low. Burying myself in Tom McCarthy’s C, which I was 175 pages into, I would occasionally glance with my peripheral vision to build the image of my immediate surroundings, something I invariably do, partly to locate myself in time and space and partly because I’m just plain nosey.

She’s on page 45 and is wearing dark blue-grey leggins. The sky is flecked with purple hues as the sun begins to set, illuminating the light, high clouds that scar the flat, pale blue plains like bruises spreading across skin after contact with a hard, heavy object; a baseball bat, a piece of scaffold, perhaps.

I can’t make out her face without being obvious so settle back into the measured narrative of the novel in my hands, which is a large-format first edition paperback copy. I much prefer smaller, pocket-size volumes because I can cram them into my jacket pocket while travelling, but can see to my right that she has small, neat breasts, covered by a copper-coloured cardigan which she is wearing over a white blouse that comes mid-way down her lean thighs. In the window, I can’t see her because my own reflection obstructs my line of vision, but I can see the busty bird in the seat in front of me in her low-cut white vest top and mint-green cardigan as she taps out a text on her smart phone.

I’ve seen all I’m going to from this vantage point, so I return all of my attention to my book, and bung my earphones into my lugs, using the strains of The Stooges’ Funhouse to mask the sound of the conversations of my fellow passengers. The hum of chatter is distracting, but not nearly as bad as snippets of overheard dialogue that offer openings into full-on eavesdrop situations.

My bladder’s beginning to transmit messages to my brain that it needs to be emptied. Electrical impulses course through my body’s information channels and I stumble down the lurching carriage to the toilet and relieve myself with a lengthy and deeply satisfying piss that expels not only a large quantity of the coffee, water and beer but also much of the surplus adrenaline that’s gone past its expiry and beyond its usefulness.

Returning to my seat, I’m better able to clock the girl in seat 37. It’s difficult to determine her age: she could be anywhere between 24 and 36. She’s tanned and had fine lines and despite being age-fixated, I’m hopeless at pinning an age on people. She’s perhaps not as pretty as I might have imagined, or maybe hoped, but not bad-looking by any means. I resume my seat, pick up my book and continue reading.

She’s travelling from Glasgow to Morpeth: I know this because her tickets are face-up on the pull-down ledge that’s hinged onto the back of the seat in front. I wonder if she’ll have to change at Newcastle.

Before long, she begins to gather her belongings and she asks me to excuse her. I stand up and step aside and she brushes past me. She is conspicuous by her lack of scent, or perhaps my own stale sweat smell is drowning it out. She smiles and thanks me, and I fleetingly wonder if she’s perhaps quite attractive after all. Realising that I will never be in a position to resolve this internal debate, I sit down again and pick up my book and the train pulls into Morpeth, an unusual stop on this route.

The stop seems uncommonly long for a small station, and, on realising this, I glance up and lean to my left a little to look down the train. I always do this, although there’s nothing to be achieved in doing so. And then I see her. Her long, blonde locks flow radiantly as she rushes down the aisle of the next carriage ahead and I feel a small tingle of excitement. It seems all too strange and for an instant I wonder if I’ve actually nodded off and am dreaming once more. But no, the door at the end of the carriage opens and she races directly toward me. There’s a minute flutter inside and she arrives beside me. She gives me an embarrassed grimace as she reaches up and tugs her coat from the overhead rack.

‘You got lucky there,’ I say.

Her smile is mixed with relief as she pants a wordless response and then is gone.

Seconds later, the doors close and the train draws away.

Anonymity # 1: Listen…

Karl van Cleave

Listen up, motherfuckers, I’m not screwing around here. I’ve got a fucking gun and I’ll fucking use it. I mean it. This guy here…. Yeah, this guy, he’s my hostage. I don’t know him, I don’t care. I mean, he doesn’t mean shit to me, so he’s expendable. We’re all expendable. I’m expendable. I know it. I don’t know why you all think you’re so fucking special. The sooner you realise you’re expendable too, the better. Wise up! I’m telling you. No-one gives a fuck. You die, no-one will even notice. You die in dramatic circumstances, you’ll make the news for a few hours, maybe even a few days. Yeah, so I don’t give a fuck if I go down… I’d happily go down, be a footnote in history, a snippet of footage on the news, a half column in the morning paper. It’s more than I am now, it’s more than any of you are now. So what’s it gonna be? Huh? Huh? Yeah, I’m talking to you. And I’m talking to you! It doesn’t have to be this way… I’ll take the money and a break for freedom, that’s cool, but you don’t wanna fuck with me. Take the money and live, or get gunned down, it’s all the same to me. This is my one fucking shot, you hear? I’ll take you down, take this guy down – this anonymous guy – take you all down. I don’t give a fuck. Yeah, I’ve gone past caring and I’ve gone past living as just one more anonymous nobody. Hand it over, I’m a rich somebody. The cops take me out, I’m a dead somebody, but that’s more than any of you, more than any of you will ever be. You know it, you sad pathetic fucks. You’re scared of me, but you envy me, because you want to be where I’m standing. You want your fifteen minutes of fame. I’m getting mine, right here, right now.

I’m poised, I’m ready. I’ve rehearsed this countless times before. I’m coiled. One day, I’m going to snap.