Cherrypicked stories
The Day Hyperbole Came True
Heads were blown apart from the inside out by mouthwash.
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- 773 reads
Jazz is the music
Tangibly, the web of silence grew, where angry words flew some moments before, now settled in the creases of the curtains, anchored to the nooks and crannies of the walls, the piles of the Persian rug.
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- 1070 reads
11. Lemon Sherbet
I was perched at the bar with Sherlock. We'd just got our second pints in and things were starting to bubble nicely. I'd been giving him the lowdown on work ' such as it was. The false starts. The saggy middles. The sentences written in gold in your head, but which turned to crap on the page ' a kind of alchemy in reverse. I had got one idea, though, that I was running by him. A play. Something inspired by my midnight walk around Mariner Plains, with all those dark, empty rooms.
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- 936 reads
The Night Fox (after Ted Hughes)
A fox came to my street Sleek backed, His spine bone china Beneath the heel of my Outstretched hand.
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- 1494 reads
Arrivals and Departures
Last oldie - I'll shut up now.
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- 1075 reads
Word War Too
Old stuff - a rare rhymer
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- 999 reads
Nook
She wrapped the babe in swatches filched from the pantry, where Cook stretched muslin over tins of treacle and candied dates to keep the rats from feasting.
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- 2477 reads
Truth Or Consequences?
“Hey Mary, you’re home. I didn’t even realize you came in. I’m concentrating really hard on this new story.” “You haven’t written one in a while, have you? What’cha been up to?”
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- 1614 reads
Jacob's Ladder
Besides sitting on park benches and surreptitiously watching the children play, Jacob Arlington spent his time meditating and mediating, dabbling in interpersonal affairs. The crisis which drove him, which had borne him, which was the actual reason for his vision, steered him toward an appropriate lifestyle. . .
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- 501 reads
I Sold Your Fingers
You had ten, I was skint to patching point and lord knows only two of them get aired or submerged on a regular basis anyway. Anyhow, you'll like the buyer. He brown-papers parts of dead saints
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- 901 reads
Untitled Sestina
A sestina is a very rigid form of poetry with six stanzas, each with six lines each. The last word of each of the lines is repeated as the last word of every line in a particular pattern for the entirety of the poem. This form is often used when the subject involves a cycle of some kind, or is an expression of a recurring thought.
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- 312 reads
10. A Brief Glimpse of The Other Side...
"There's something about the place, Al, he told me one evening over a beer and a game of lop-sided snooker. He spoke very softly, almost reverentially. "It's the history or something. You can feel it in the air. It gets into you. Like fag smoke. Like, right in the blood. And it suits me. Being alone with it. I wouldn't want to live any other way now.
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- 2322 reads
Perforations
You won't hear these words, the voice in you head doesn't have a sound really, and if tissue box perforations have ever looked like teeth ready to devour the time you waste, but then again, if we are to believe in all that we see,
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- 700 reads
Those Words
Again, an old story -just putting it back on.
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- 823 reads
8. The Curious Incident of the Blag in the Daytime...
We drank in silence for a few moments. Then Sherlock rolled his shoulders and sniffed. He lifted his deerstalker, turned it around, put it back on again ' tugging at the peaks like an admiral. Something was coming. "I'll give you a story, Al, he said. He took a last, lung-stuffing drag on his fag and blew his smoke at the bar top, where it spread out in a layer like dry ice. "Did I tell you¦ I actually was a detective once.
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- 980 reads
The Invitation
Graeme chose a tie in coral pink. It hung from the sale rack like a fish skin, pale stitching catching the light like scales. This will show them, he thought happily, throwing the length of silk into the grey plastic basket. That I take the frivolity in my life seriously. That I take the frivolity in their life seriously. That I, he took a long breath and then sighed, take my frippery and freedom seriously.
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- 1104 reads
The Day Before
(I was young then - living the irretrievable moment, though earthed enough to know it)
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- 866 reads
Holding
Small things remind me: The tang of smoke on cloth. A certain way of laughing, catching like the moment a match is struck. A cough, guttural as gunfire, cutting the night. Beer-rime in an empty glass. The rasp of steel on stone. Grey hairs in my comb
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- 799 reads