Aces, Fruits & Ingots.

Louella looking out the no-one-can-look-in glass. Everything inside the car defined. Everything outside blurring. Towns appear and disappear. Endless dual-carriage and fields. There is motion. There is none. There is heat. Burning Spear on repeat. There is no sickness. No one spoke as they drove west. They stayed the night at a clean hotel in Meredith. … Continue reading Aces, Fruits & Ingots.

Pan & The Fluted Mimosa.

The sun dropped behind the bruised horizon and the sky became plateaued in fading orange and blue. A car, bearing the legend Weston Taxis, appeared on the quiet street, stopping opposite The Playhouse. The sky was held in the theatre's windows; a ghost crowd, too; foyered. A man and a woman climbed from the taxi … Continue reading Pan & The Fluted Mimosa.

No Glass.

“I don’t like it.” No one hears him. No one sees him. He used to think they were ignoring him, but they're really not. He is concealed. He stands within the stinking flock garden among the yellowed roses depicted on the wallpaper of the Eight Kings' public bar. Grinner pokes his nose beyond the faux … Continue reading No Glass.

Fading Beehive.

Fading This is from when he was still a young boy; hip-slung, just so; nothing very much to say. Three lances of sunlight, emanating from beyond the top right-hand corner, fall forever across the photograph, piercing a number of the sitters - pupils and teachers. The headmaster (Mr. D) - front row, centre - has … Continue reading Fading Beehive.

Pigeon Sense.

Short on time, Tweed Gilet meld day into night raising a frenetic, greasy, bubble haired, scuffed rhythm and soul hullabaloo. The frontman, yesterday's eyeliner, candle wax flesh bent beneath the polystyrene, sick-looking, kisses the mic, briefly, tenderly, intones, "Safe home everybody." * Being a stranger in town, Knott, nowhere to go post-show, began to help … Continue reading Pigeon Sense.