The day she won the National Exclamation Lottery - which was also her birthday - she decided, at once, that almost the first thing she would do was buy her old man the boat. She was generous like this. But, first, she had to go to work. So, she finished her second coffee, pocketed her … Continue reading Hejira.
Category: Short story
The Pirate Party.
There aren't so many pirates at the pirate party. Mostly, it's just people at a party. Wayne, though, who I haven't seen since Tommy, me and him spent that week in Cornwall, is stood at the window, staring at the sea. He has a blackjoke, plastic pirate patch over one eye. It has a skull … Continue reading The Pirate Party.
Dim Star, Mojito & Mojo Rising.
Had he never misplaced the mojo, he may, he reasoned one evening, have been able to keep a keener eye on his star. But, he sensed, it had fallen. He came to this late. Drew scant detail. Reason, as such, eluded. He dreamed a nearfuture pocket of his being patted. Mojo? He looked up in … Continue reading Dim Star, Mojito & Mojo Rising.
The Ancient Skate Punk.
The young lounge the hours on the benches of the dead: their carefully careless hair skew-wiffs caps. Scratched and battered skateboards slung at their outstretched sneakers. Energy drinks clutched in one hand, handset in the other. Sickly, sticky-blue smiles on insect faces. You rarely see anyone riding a board these days. The older guys, sure. … Continue reading The Ancient Skate Punk.
Vespers.
They sat on the doorstep at the back of the flats. They came every evening, as summer elapsed, to smoke and trade hushed nothings and somethings and to wait for the pipistrelle bat. They sat with their knees drawn and sometimes she stretched and he admired her legs and he rolled tobacco, licking the … Continue reading Vespers.
Withered Apples.
It was chalked on the bog wall and spread quickly round school - a whisper to a chant in the playground. “Pippin’s mum’s only got one tit!” Odd. • We’d played darts at Pippin’s last summer. The house on the corner, halfway up Steep Street. I kept score. We smoked his mum’s cigarettes, drank his … Continue reading Withered Apples.
