Brooklands

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TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
StorySome thumb Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryTaking a photo of workmen in Chapelfield gardens Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryThings we looked at with the satellite spy cam Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryLummy good, tum-tum and garbles Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryNiall's perspective Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryThe Hot Water Ran Out When We Were Having A Sexy Shower Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryOh lucky man Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryTwo Poems Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryThe Ditto Machines Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryPi Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryThe world is getting darker Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryTwo hundred and six bones Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StorySecret Machines Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryThe strangeness gland Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryThe Day-Star Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StorySnag Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryThe Clodhoppers Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryMy brain would empty the discos Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryNeg Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryRevelations Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryOne hundred ghosts in the loft extension Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryThe Glass Collector Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryToday is your birthday Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryStar-struck Brooklands012 years 5 days ago
StoryRoad Brooklands012 years 5 days ago

My stories

Cherry

The Salon At The Pinnacle Of Man

Relax. You will recognise him by his haircut. The razor slipped and there was a sound like the door of a tomb sliding back. Most great discoveries are accidents.
Cherry

Page 200 from a novel you have not read

The 200th page from a novel that doesn't exist

Urbanagrarian

We still live by the seasons; the knitwear came early this year.
Cherry

If it's for me, it's for everyone

Here’s what made me think of death: taking cinder from the stove, balanced on a shovel, shaking the dust over a gravelled car bay, watching it expand from breath to mist: a cape unfurled.

To the Matterhorn

Sunburnt black, Hemingway walked for days, his skis across his back like a crucifix.

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