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The Glove Compartment I know a churning crowded Messy vaguely pointless Sort of black hole called The glove compartment of life Where I'm always...

Fifteen minutes of fame...

Single dream resting in shadow, bright memory fading through dry brush. Hovering sounds of broken rock, and the distant cry of a lonely hawk. The...

on seeing two Chinooks appear over the roof of my house

where does it start? well, the corner shop possibly the entrance was like a large bay window semicircle of white framed glass with a door in the centre inside, on the left were the fruit and veg the sweets on the right in perfect rows like patient children at their Sunday church service at the back of the shop an L shaped counter bacon slicer in front (horror machine that makes a sound all of it's own) register on the right (old dark wood, probably now buried somewhere in a second rate antiques shop) I remember a very fussy woman buying bits and pieces I, a small child behind the counter with my grandmother, said, "that will be sixpence please" Grandmother murmured "it's on account" I looked confused "sixpence?" the fussy woman ignored me a stupid child that didn't understand some people don't need money But, I don't remember it well the days of bacon slicer and "on account" the days of overall storeroom boxed up sweets and rows and rows of black covered Mars bars Kellogg's Variety pack and heavy metal scales plain crisps with separate blue salt packet big jars of sherbet lemons, aniseed balls, mint imperials and little orange cough sweets whose name I forget all dispensed in triangular paper bags But, I don't remember it well I remember my grandfather shaving every morning in the huge kitchen sink and being sick every morning, being sick my grandmother would dance in front of the stove in her big grandma underwear while we giggled and laughed and my grandfather was sick in the sink I never really though about it until he died, cancer of the bowel long gone now anyway, I think that's where it starts I'm just not sure where it ends

They told me to keep it hidden. This wasn't like the SLR, The rocket launchers or the Carl-Gustav, There was no playing with this, This had value...

A Norse Saga in Fifty Words

A mysterious dame leads Nelson, hard-boiled PI and professional drinker, into big trouble.

The bride didn't wear white; she saw red.