We are interested in good writing.
We are very interested in working-class writing and under-represented writers in all forms.
No Parties magazine aims to serve a community who are hungry for quality output.
For example, the reviewer. We want the type of reviewer who aims to be reviewed. The type of reviewer who writes meta-reviews. The type of reviewer who wants to review the unreviewable.
We want essays about white-collar robberies of the weakest of our multitiered societies. We want essays on gender identity and the identityless. Political reviews. Cultural pointings. Anything, as long as that’s your passion.
All backgrounds, neurodiversity, orientations, identities, and ethnicities are needed.
We are all walking directors, documenting the beat of our steps through social media, presenting a filtered image. This magazine will solve none of that but will try to celebrate everything that is challenging about our digital world, the old written word, and this overcrowded global microscope that jabs our eyes with pseudo-controversies and shadow politics.
The contemporary intellectual scene has become the equivalent of a petrol-station sandwich, drained of vivacity, unnourishing, simultaneously dry and concerningly moist. We watch on from the outside as the gerontocracy, elected by a zombie apocalypse of baby boomers and older
generations isolate us from and feast upon the innards of our futures.
We seek ground-breaking ideas
writing that can
the meaning of writing.
We want to celebrate
the new directions of
all types of writing.
Anita Ponton ‘Adelaide! Adelaide!’ Mama’s rasping voice is calling. Caw. Caw. Caw. You can hear her cry, between your ears, in the back of your head. She’s been there all along. Above you, in the trees, they sit and watch. Black eyes, black wings, shining and thick feathered, beating, beating. Look out–here she comes. Big, … Continue reading Catching Crows
Matthew Farrelly It’s Saturday morning. Half-eaten pastry on the dashboard. Takeaway coffee in hand. Dad hops out of the van, and I follow him into the back lane. The weekday lads have left the skip half full in the garden, and it’s wet from last night’s rain. Shrubs and roots lie dying in the skip. … Continue reading Raising
George McComas I want that snapper from the moment I first see her, snorting sea slug paste off a flatfish in the men’s toilets. She wipes her snout and offers me some, holding the flatfish between her fins like a platter of hors d’oeuvres. I ought to call over the cafe manager, or at least … Continue reading Jazz Lobsters