Old Man Grinner

Caresses ya throat as it passes, it do. Good as gold it is, too. Takes ya right back, that’s what a good drink do. Takes ya right back to the old days. Helps ya remember. Helps ya forget. Or somethink. They’ve bottled old man Grinner. Made a commemorative cider of his home-brew scrumpy. Old Man … Continue reading Old Man Grinner

The Surprising Successes of The Ferraras (part two of three)

Anthony-Sylvester was the eldest, by some nine minutes, and was the first of the two to be a talker (apparently). He was outgoing and attractive as a teenager. Sylvester-Anthony, quiet and reflective, could be sullen and was prone to chest infections & hallucinations as a boy. Despite these ailments he was the first of the … Continue reading The Surprising Successes of The Ferraras (part two of three)

Mirror (6): Distant Bells.

6      [business card]: Kelly Jayne, BA, MA. Artist. Art Psychotherapist.   *   Distant Bells. Parade of grave shoes. Their shadows shrink and loom. He believes he sees them, so he sees them. He watches them askew. They hover and pass, never ending. The shadows were drawn to this place, he imagined, by … Continue reading Mirror (6): Distant Bells.

Mirror (1-3).

I rarely see myself in the day mirror anymore, having learned to disappear myself. The day mirror has become my third eye. The day mirror allows me to become magnificent, mercurial. I enter and leave it at will. Within its frame, I free range and, despite being close enough to kiss your ear, I look … Continue reading Mirror (1-3).

Elvis Mirror.

Photomontage

Sunshine, honey the length of South Street, blessing nearly every pale shape there. Sunshine smears the terraces with a liberal ease and the windows cannot help but grin. The market is near gridlock with browsers, dawdlers: a mix of locals and grockles. Pushchairs and trolleys chariot. Shopping bags and shoulder bags tangle, and endless people brush. … Continue reading Elvis Mirror.

The Ever After, or Thereabouts.

The storm abated and the congregation shuffled outside. Reverend J. Jackson, the flint of St. Hilda's at her back, was blowing great gusts of tobacco smoke into the graveyard and every blue cloud was making a miserable job of concealing her. If anything, the smoke drew attention, haloed her. She was playing the service back … Continue reading The Ever After, or Thereabouts.