Literary Journal Spotlight #2: The Four Faced Liar

Below, the editors of The Four Faced Liar tell us a little about the magazine, and you can read an extract!

The Four Faced Liar is a Cork-inspired and based, Irish-flavoured, internationally facing print journal publishing an eclectic mix of fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry, and visual art. We aim to showcase emerging writers and artists, alongside those more established, to help them on their creative and publishing journey. To date we have published and launched three issues with a free-to-submit policy. Our journal was highlighted in an article by Kevin Power in the Irish Times on December 21, 2024, where he wrote that The Four Faced Liar ‘is a conspicuously beautiful object, a large-format magazine with photographs and artworks gorgeously printed. It offers a poetry and prose mix, or perhaps buffet is the word I’m looking for. The vibe is bouncy, funny, with underlying darkness’.

Each issue also features an interview with an established writer with insights on their craft and process, and a slot for visual artists to discuss their pieces. We determined from the get-go to pay all our contributors for their work and have been true to our word. We are also committed to letting every submitter know the outcome of their submission. Our cover art always features work by a Cork based artist, with the rest of the visual art selected by open submission internationally. Our four editors, writers themselves, are Patrick Holloway, Stephen Brophy, Sinéad Griffin and Jennifer Matthews. We’ve received some funding from Cork City Council and Cork County Council and in addition The Four Faced Liar has recently been awarded funding by the Arts Council of Ireland for which we are very grateful. The magazine is available at selected bookshops and online here.

Extract from The Four Faced Liar: ‘Spit/ Swallow’ by Liam Maguire

The sea spits out strange things.

Today it is a seagull, flattened on the sand. Izzy traces the leg which is snapped and ends in a gnarled stump. The other leg is pointed up, up, up towards the grey sky. She slips her fingers into the gorge of the gull’s chest. In life, the bird was puffed and proud. Now it is raw and gory. It has been chewed, tasted. Izzy pushes through gut, muscle, sinew, until she feels something solid. She pinches it and pulls it out slowly, easily. It is a sliver of pink-white in her palm. It is slick bone. Delicate, almost translucent. It is gorgeous.

The navy body warmer cuts off at the man’s bicep, which pumps as he lifts carton after carton of three-litre milk and places each neatly in the dairy fridge. Izzy is beside him before she can help herself. He looks at her, makes a noise that is something between a cough and a question. She touches his arm. She feels skin, feels firmness, feels the thump-thump of his heart pumping blood to his limbs. She feels heat creep along her neck. Would you like to get a drink with me after work, she asks. She waits. He scratches his nose with a knuckle, shrugs. Sure, he says.

The man’s name is Stephen. He has worked in the supermarket for nine months. He dropped out of his Digital Business and Innovation course and has no plans to return to education. His manager lets him listen to podcasts while he works. Every day, he devours hours of conversations between business moguls, entrepreneurs, ex-MMA fighters. Conversations sent directly into his skull. He drinks six pints while Izzy is with him. He eats two packets of salt and vinegar crisps and offers her one from his second bag. He believes in gender binary: some things are inherently masculine and others are feminine and that is just the way it is. Izzy listens. She likes to listen to men talk. She wants to feel his chest, his stomach, listen to what is beneath his skin. She wants to hear his fingers crack. He has friends to meet and sees her off. He tries to kiss her as she gets into her taxi but his lips press against her ear. She smiles, says next time, next time.

Today it is a young trout. Izzy finds it at the bottom of a dune, far from the water. The trout is eyeless, skin unblemished and unbroken where sockets should be. Born blind. Izzy splits it open, plucks out a bone so thin it could be a toothpick. It is feather-light and sharp on her tongue. She bites and it snaps. She takes another bone. Bite, snap. Bite, snap.

The smoking area is noisy and Izzy is packed in close against the man she is kissing. His tongue is a slug in her mouth. She lets it explore her, as the man exhales sharply through his nose onto her face. He stops briefly to suck in more air. Izzy does not ask his name. She is curious about the taste of him, his mouth a sharp lick of gin. This is good, she thinks, and her hand wanders. She is disappointed with what she finds, with the grooves and looseness of him. She knows that underneath there is nothing solid.

Today it is Stephen.

He finds her in the water, up to her knees. He is furious and red. His eyes are small buttons and his hands are balled into tight fists. He huffs and puffs. I saw you out, licking the face off him, he says, who was he? You bitch, you horrible yoke. The words roll off Izzy like dew drops. His body warmer is open and the firmness of his chest pokes out, skin tight against bone. Her heart races. Izzy pulls Stephen to her. The water licks them both. I can’t change, she says, and this is true. She listens to him beat, beat beneath her, brittle as chicken-bone. She holds him until he is still, until he snaps. The bones are bigger, but she manages.

The sea spits out strange things, and Izzy swallows, she swallows, she swallows.