8 [photocopy of a snapshot] I cut Lillian's hair every twelfth week, dry it every sixth. It grows. I cut it. I dry it. It has become grey by increments; city pigeon to autumn noon, fading print to cigarette ash. Each accretion of tone slowly highlighting further her pink brittle cheeks, the pools … Continue reading Mirror (8): Pale Airman.
31/08/19. Fast food wrappers waft the grey parades. Peter Smart is not at work today. Today he is in Jarrow at his ex-sister-in-law’s baby’s christening. “On a Saturday?” Sunday, surely, is the traditional day for such an event? * Tanya arrives late. She twitches. She shrugs at her hangover. She will not be redeemed … Continue reading Run As Fast As You Can, Bear.