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Three schoolgirls, skirted, shirted, each with a small rucksack across their white cottoned back, play a sing-song game of dance and words in the carriage. They spin & slap the upturned soles of their smart shoes together, spin & clap palms. A pleated chorus of words & laughter accompanies the frenetic routine and the motion … Continue reading Doors Closing.
Martin Kettle, formally of Stoneyclough but now resident of Penn Beacon, was stood on a table in the Eight Kings. He was taping the fourth corner of a large poster of Bob Dylan's face to the wall at the end of the bar. "No, no, Sam," he was saying. "It's ‘uff’, not ‘ow’. Stoneyclough." He … Continue reading The Bristol Arm.
A rose flowered from the desert and, wearing nothing but a felt lavender bolero and a baize-green bikini, weaved her way across the sand toward the quiet blacktop. Shadows, long and low, leaned into the west; pointing to the distant sierras reminiscent of jaw bones in the early morning sun. She appeared dizzy and confused; … Continue reading Distant Sierras.
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