Room 2D

By James Kenway from Janus 28 Gazing down from behind the glass I could see the girl crossing the patio below, hips swinging above the tapping high heels, the blonde mop topping the lot. It would take her a couple of minutes to come up in the lift, sway along the corridor and let herself in. I sat behind my desk, chair angled so that I faced the door. I wanted her to see me as soon as she entered. I had a few very serious words to say to this young lady and I wanted the psychological advantage of catching her by surprise. I glanced around my cluttered and untidy office with distaste. The place was scattered with overflowing ashtrays and half-filled stale coffee cups. File drawers were half open and papers higgledy-piggledy everywhere. What on earth did the girl do all day? I heard the lift chunk to a stop and the tap of her heels in the corridor. Even without that giveaway sound I would have been sure it was her. Mine was the on...

An article by Julie Holmes from Februs 8. For some time now the glossy monthly women’s magazines (you know the ones I mean) have been waging war against an enemy they claim is greater than Attila the Hun, Adolf Hitler and the VAT-man rolled into one. Panic has spread through the ranks of Womankind and fashion victims throughout the land are taking evasive action against the foe, known colloquially as VPL, or ‘Visible Panty line’. Misguided fashion journalists are convincing their readers that a phenomenon that has brought pleasure to generations from World War One onwards is now to be regarded as a bad thing, totally undesirable and, in fact, pretty naff. They actually produce pages of photographs demonstrating undergarments that will be invisible under clothing. Now, it could be that these people are incredibly naive, or that they have some ulterior motive for their actions that I cannot begin to fathom, or maybe they simply ...

From Phoenix 2 It squatted in the corner, fat body perched upon splayed legs, half-concealed in the wintry afternoon’s gloom. It didn’t move, just sat there, waiting. Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the polished floor and a voice, gruff and authoritative, told the newcomer to wait. In the gloom she waited, and every now and then dared a glance in the direction of the monstrosity which still crouched unmoving in the corner. Her eyes darted away each time, she fiddled with her hands, smoothed one dubiously over the seat of her little shorts, then had to look back at it again. A tiny, stifled sob sounded in the cavernous room and she put her hands to her eyes and brushed away what might have been tears. The little golden hairs on her bare legs stood up as she shivered and suddenly felt goose-pimply down her thighs. She held her breath. The heavy step returned along the corridor and the d...