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.
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.
We are in a prayer circle on Bridgeport High Street. Praying for the lost. It rains. Pastor Simon, in his shit brown suit, leads the long prayer. The rain comes in at a slant. He holds a bible to his chin. He takes forever with a prayer, does Pastor Simon. We are wet below the … Continue reading Speeding For Jesus.
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.
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.
Martin Kettle, once of Stoneyclough (the pronunciation, if I remember correctly, being ‘-cluff’ rather than ‘-clow’), a town a long way north of here, but now resident of Penn Beacon, was stood on a table in the Eight Kings. He was busy sellotaping the corner of a large poster of Bob Dylan high up onto … Continue reading The Bristol Arm.