Cherrypicked stories
Day 21 - Sunday
Water is cut by the misty runway of a pochard taking off
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- 905 reads
The Author
Even my parents waited until my book was remaindered before buying a copy.
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- 3 comments
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- 2923 reads
Devil
This is part of some new writting after getting some advice from Mark brown..cheers mark!
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- 1002 reads
The coffee here is drugged
Send word. Send poison experts with bulletproof vests and superguns and get them to order mochas across the way. Just one and I was charged like a sixty-six inch cell,
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- 1085 reads
Answerphone
A message on my answerphone, from a voice I've never heard, has left me full of yearning as I hang on every word. For my messages are usually, in truth, a bit mundane;
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- 903 reads
Pretending he had done something wonderful
Cover from "Flowers for Algernon" by Daniel Keyes
Dandelions and daisies
Sitting quietly, alone for once, I feel the warm bruise of your departure and am glad that you came close enough to cause it. I send messages to you on dandelions
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- 2072 reads
Mercury Hours
We took turns all afternoon Once I persuaded you to come out. You ran away and yelled “fucked up messed up “ from Debbie’s flower bed then returned to the car.
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- 899 reads
Day 19 - Adrienne goes through the metal detector
While I am armouring myself again - the broken turtleshell of my backpack, the chainmail of my keys, the thick wedge of my wallet
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- 1408 reads
Snip Not My Girdle
Snip not my girdle, Your Honour, should I fall to the floor like a badly leant guitar. Snip not my girdle, Mademoiselle! Hold instead a cheap vial of salts to my nostril.
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- 1094 reads
A Slight Delay
So talk comes to a halt again as the rail tracks curl off into the distance parallel lines curving off together like some long unresolved argument. The train we are riding on
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- 2340 reads
Day 20 - Urgent Telegram
You need not hurry to the station while an orchestra rages stop
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- 1099 reads
The bruise
I hold my arm aloft. The GP, a well-spoken man in his fifties, tells me ‘it’s only a bruise’. ‘Why won’t it go, then?’
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- 1047 reads
Petanque - Boom Boom Betty & Pot Shot Pointer
Boom Boom Betty, 88; stops the game, Raises one wet finger, still; checks the wind, Tips her hat, grins; swings her string and picks up her hot golden ball on a dangling silver magnet;
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- 4448 reads
Day 15 - Expert Witness
On the one hand, Dr. Fegan-Earl, standing in the witness box, places his own fist lightly against his cheek.
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- 1029 reads
the backyard
a remarkable dream about a place I've never been to before . . .
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- 807 reads
Day 13 - What I learnt from Spin the Bottle
only the blatant approach man-to-man kissing with trepidation.
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- 978 reads
Sophie's Urn.
A note on this story.
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- 1116 reads