We are Bandit Fiction, a new voice in digital publishing with the goal of offering additional opportunities to new and emerging writers. Entirely not-for-profit and run by a team of passionate volunteers, we try and create a community where writers can grow, learn, engage, and further themselves in whichever and whatever ways they wish.
We’re always trying to try new things and seek out new avenues to engage readers, from releasing podcasts to working with literary awards, and we’re always offering our audience the opportunity to get involved with us and steer us in new and exciting directions.
Featured From The Read More Project
She’s meant to be at the movies tonight with Sal and Nancy and Marigold who she doesn’t like. Marigold’s thick as mud and thinks she looks like Barbara Streisand, but she’s ugly as sin. I’m glad she can’t go. It means he won’t have to put me to bed later on.
He took everything away when she passed. Shoved into boxes in the garage. There was only one thing left, a painting of a smiling, rosy lady holding a chocolate bar to her lips. Quite hideous, Mariella, he had often said. They could see it from their bed, where they would lie like two curled up watchdogs.
When I see you now, it’s tiny glimpses. You’re at the office, where I’m supposed to be working, but instead am mostly twitching my eyes about the room, trying to catch you. You follow me on the bus, where I can almost see your reflection in the misty windows.
From Bandit Fiction Presents…
I can’t deny I got a bit of a shock when I first saw her lying there. Right next to the bins. The rep had been wrapped loosely in an old tarpaulin, but somehow it had fallen open. I pulled the tarp aside a little more and saw that she had one leg bent underneath her body, eyes closed, her uniform intact but smudged with dirt.
After about an hour, the bus deposits us on the side of a road marked ‘Laoshan’. Green and imposing, the mountain looms ahead of us as we follow signs for the visitor’s centre. Walking up the long, open drive, we’re surprised to see a race set-up, complete with banners, a podium, and a finish line.
I wrestle a pack of tissues from my bra – the only place to put them, as my funeral garments are short on pockets and my bag is so tiny it barely fits my phone – and pass them to Willow, then Nai. Willow’s been clutching my hand since we left her parents’ house this morning, as though she’s afraid of losing me too.
Latest Blog Content
One of the biggest challenges facing publishers like us is the fight to get our name out there. After a ten minute browse on Twitter, you’ll find countless small publishers, independent presses, and online ventures focused on getting the work of newer writers out there. The problem is trying to stand out from the crowd. […]
Pitting the written word against the moving image in a battle to determine the best fiction.
Harry Wilding During my Creative Writing MA at the University of Nottingham this last year, advice and feedback from peers, tutors and established writers has, without a doubt, made me a better writer. However, the seminars led by literary agents and publishers (of all sizes) have paradoxically made me less confident I will ever get […]
Latest From Our Podcast
Episode Six – The Word For Salt, Beyond Lamorna, On The Run – The Bandit Fiction Podcast
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