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.
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.
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.
The once-black garment had seen better days. It was unseamed, here, and was quite clearly torn, here (and here). There was a coating of various stains, common with rough and careless living, upon it. The moniker, Derek K. Kerrick, was faintly scripted onto an inch of ribbon on the underside. But this was not the … Continue reading The Rabbit.
A series of corridors. Breathing hard, neither speaking. Their footsteps falling from the walls, the ceiling. The moon in the windows, repeating. The fire door. The way out. Great gulps of cold night air, both doubled over, looking all about themselves, sweating heartbeats. They were stood on a short, wooden jetty on the south side … Continue reading Plate Moon.
Judith Butters was on her way to scatter her father's ashes over Bristol. It was her belief that he would be happy with this decision. Knott. "I imagine it's pretty quiet up there." "I've never been." "Me neither. But this is what I imagine." The road to Benchcombe was browed first with boxy hedges, then … Continue reading A Million Motes.
