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).
She sat at the kitchen table and all the what ifs, what weres and what could’ve beens floated around her head as the bread began to rise in the oven. She thought about the summer they'd met. But actually what was there to think about? A collection of soft images, feelings and snatches of conversations. … Continue reading A Tale In Three-Quarter Time.
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 panes blaze yellowblack. Orange rinds the frames. And beyond the flames faces and throats determine to drain the bar. We go in. The Fox & Hound on Pound Street is a moody boozer. Any fool can see that. It bristles. A worn welcome of cheap perfume and tobacco and beer. The smell of damp … Continue reading Coming Down The Line.
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.
the air stirs with rumour of the submarine halved in the harbour. brows furrow and palm-flattened charts appear. below the sheltered walls, an aria - an iron-throated chorister. archaic; rises, floats, fades, and disappears. (photo: nick reeves - south shields pier)