Initial information…

The first edition of Electric Press magazine is scheduled for May (2019).

Please see the relevant pages, on the top menu bar, ‘About’ & ‘Contributions’ for general information.

Detailed announcements will be posted here shortly.

In the meantime, please follow Electric Press by using one of the buttons on the right-hand side of this screen.

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May 2019 will see the publication of the new literary magazine the ‘Electric Press’.
The Electric Press is primarily directed toward the book lover, the book worm, bibliophiles and those whose literary bent drives them to frequent the libraries and dusty bookstores of the cities and towns they visit.
The Electric Press advocates the independent writer and author, small-press and hybrid publisher by providing an online global platform for engagement and communication by way of stimulating, informative and illuminating content.
A series of thought-provoking articles, appealing interviews, short stories and literary reports underpin the foundations of the Electric Press’s ethos.
The Electric Press is published by CQ International Publishing on behalf of Electric Eclectic book branding, its partners and associated organisations.
Electric Press is readily available to a readership base of over 50 thousand people, in 90 countries around the globe.
Articles, news items, editorials, critiques, expositions, personal views, interviews, items of public interest and other such related items are welcome for submission.
Advertising, advertorials and Native marketing requests are open for consideration.
Please contact TheElectricpress@mail.com in the first instance.

I Don’t Love You. (Flash fiction for the weekend)


I poured another whisky.

Amber liquid flowing smoothly, small waves licking the side of the tumbler. The aroma rose, oak-wood, peat and alcohol.

Twisting the glass, looking through it, into it, my words came back, like an echo, a haunting.

“I don’t love you.”

I lied.

But that is what anger does, frustration. Temper.

It makes you a liar.

I twisted the phone in my hands.

I was not sure if I was going to make the call, or if I was waiting, hoping, willing for her to call me.

Of course, she would not. Not after what I said. Not after those words.

I did not blame her.

I would not be the one to call if she said those words to me.

I knew where she was now. I could see her in my mind’s eye, crying. Huddled, cuddling her pillow. Teardrops and mascara soaking into the crisp fresh white linen.

I drank the whisky. All of it. One gulp.

It burnt. All the way down.

I poured another. A large one. Larger than the last.

My heart was heavy for her. But why, oh why… and how can a woman, a woman you love more than life itself, make you so angry, so easily?

Was it me?

Am I an angry man? Do I have a short temper? An uncontrollable rage?


No, I do not.

I am mister average. John Doe. Fred Bloggs. A.N. Other.

I am angry now. Frustrated now. Or am I?

I have so many emotions, questions, feelings spinning around my head, my mind, I do not know what I feel.

I know how I feel.




These sensations are not just in my head; they are flowing through my whole body. I feel sick, hungry, anxious, wild, sad, tearful, from the pit of my stomach to my fingertips and toes.

The whisky should help. It should deaden the senses.

But it does not.

Still, I tip the glass, letting the smoothness of single malt drizzle onto my tongue. I savour it this time, taste it.

It still burns, but a pleasant pleasing burn, warming.


But not comforting enough.

I pick up the phone again. My fingers dance over the screen. I am shaking.


Scared of what?

I have lost her already. I have nothing more to lose.

Except myself.

Myself. I chuckle at that. I hold no value of me.

I am worthless. So again I have nothing to lose.


This time, I fill the glass, almost to the rim.

I drink a third. Three quick sips.

There is no burn anymore, just the warmth, a silky warmth tinged with a hint of sadness. A lingering aftertaste of longing.

I slide a cigarette from the pack, resting the filter against my lips as I breathe in, pulling the flame closer. The cigarettes end glows red.

I exhale, softly, slowly. Letting the smoke twist its way upwards, towards the ceiling. Here and gone.


As I wish my words had done.

The low coffee table holds a few items. Whisky bottle, tumbler, lighter, cigarettes, phone, Colt 45.

I have used four items.

Just the phone and gun to go.

Call her?

Or not?

If she says she hates me. No loss.

Nothing of value to lose, except a single shell.

If she does not answer. No loss either.

I will still get the message.

Or not to phone.

Not to chance her wrath.

Just pick up the 45.

Get it over with.

Why do I want to call her?

I wonder.

To say sorry?

To say I was wrong?

That I made a mistake?


“I don’t love you” is not a mistake. It is a clear, precise sentence.

A sentence I uttered.

Foolishly. Unmeant. Stupidly. Without thought.

I stroke the black glass of the phones screen once more, a little too firmly. It lights up and there she is; smiling at me, laughing.

I should delete her picture. I think.

I do not want to press call.

I am scared, frightened. Yet my finger squeezes down.


I want to stop it.


I cannot move. I cannot function.

Her voice.

“I love you,” she says, “I am sorry. I’m missing you.”

I still can’t move.

“Can I come over… like now, right now. Because I need you. I want you to hold me tight, forever”.

I lift the phone and say…

Wasted Man

If you enjoyed this story by Paul White why not head over to his website where you can browse through all of Paul’s books, including his Electric Eclectic books and see what projects and works-in-progress he is working on at present.


Please, do not forget to ‘follow’ this site, the ‘button’ is top right of the page, to be informed of all the upcoming news regarding Electric Press magazine, and to keep receiving some nice and surprising posts like this short story. 

Thank you.

Watching the Sunrise


As the sun rose and the darkness faded the sky took on a burnished amber hue.

Birds started to welcome the dawn with the melody of their chorus.

I breathed in the sharp crispness of the morning air and looked up, a few wispy clouds hung motionless in the stratosphere.

It was such a fresh, bright morning, I predictably recalled the hymn ‘Morning has broken’; in this instance, my mind heard it being sung by Cat Stevens. I half-consciously found myself humming along, (out of tune of course.)

This was soon followed by the voice of Bob Marley and ‘Three little birds’. I smiled inwardly as I realised both of these hqdefaultvoices were inside my head and I wondered why on earth we become so full of angst when someone admits to hearing voices in their own minds, or indeed fearful if they inhabit our own?

This morning as the sun rose higher and the amber tones dissipated to reveal an azure blue sky, I found I was comforted by the voices I heard singing to me.

Regardless of the scientific, cognitive or physiological explanations, of which I do not give one iota of care for at this time, I was quite amused by my own insight of this experience, which is; as a writer I constantly think, in the words of ‘Arthur’ (Dudley Moore), ‘Funny things that make me laugh’.

This was one of those times when even lateral thinking was unable to keep up with the speed of the random leaping of my thoughts. I have coined a personal term for my hyper thought process, I refer to it as ‘Geometric Surging’.

I love it because this is where all the oddball, wild, whacky and seemingly unconnected notions, the weird concepts, opinions and theories somehow find common ground which allows them to become authentic and viable concepts. This is one state of mind where many of my inspirational stimuli, collected from far and wide over periods of time, meld into solid ideas. All that is needed is the right ambience, a moment of a certain atmosphere, to induce the right frame of mind.

Today, for me, it was watching the sunrise.

I hope you enjoyed this short insight into the mind of a writer.

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Electric Press

Are you looking for a new favourite author to read but are unsure of how to find them?

Then let me suggest you read a few Electric Eclectic novelettes. Each EE novelette is a short introductory book showcasing an authors style, narration and storytelling abilities, allowing you to find and choose the author(s) you like best.

At just 1.00 (Dollar/Pound/Euro) each, you can grab a handful of Electric Eclectic books for the price of a Starbucks coffee… yet you can only drink a coffee once.

Chose your Electric Eclectic book here.