After some time, a bearded, balding, overalled, paint spattered, coot man - stepladder and duffel bag in hand - came into the low level buzz of the waiting room. He clumsied himself and his chattel through the door, allowing a brief rush of oily, night cold air to enter, too. The gust, flustering the newspaper … Continue reading The Waiting Room.
The magi appeared from imagination, stepping from the between to the in-between. Stepping Greenwich Mean Time. Onto the moon, stepping. Stones on water, stepping. Heel to toe, stepping. Fancy footwork! Stepping.
Perched on a bough in a black alder tree, trench rot soaking his booted feet, armpits and groin and tunic unkempt, teeming, a pale airman watched two strangers beneath. They were stood in shirt and tie, pinstripe beneath mackintosh and tucked into black rubber boots, ankle-deep in the river he knew to be the Quaggy, … Continue reading A Pale Airman.
The photo has faded since last I looked. I thought, this only happens in films and books. "He had a fondness for attics," said the rook. Still tells tales, 6x4, a little stained. The boys' names were, Eenie, Meanie, Minnie, Moe, Daniel, Luke and me. Fish fingers and ice-cream cones. Content in wellies. Similarly, it … Continue reading Fondness for attics.
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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.
