I’ve always liked Gin.
Straight gin that is.
I know exactly where it started…My love for the gin.
I used to go to my mum’s boss’s house with my parents and I was allowed the odd can of beer. One night that we were there, his old aunties were visiting.
Weird they were.
“Letti the Yeti. Letti the Yeti,” the children chant.
… “Mama, what’s Yeti?”
“The Yeti is a monster, Letti. It’s also called Bigfoot.”
Nina and I were just kids when we started running into oncoming traffic. Dodging cars was something that felt natural – a part of growing up, facing demons we didn’t know we had. We’d sit on the low curb, flicking crisps into the gutter like cards into a top hat, then as we heard the rumbling of a car approach, we clamped hands and dashed into the street. We experienced short spurts of ecstasy, drifting away on a sublime high and yet the feelings were short-lived, elusive.
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Murphy Conway was half Albert’s age and twice his size, but all Murphy had to do was look into the pieces of flint that were Albert’s eyes to know he could never take him, even if he did him dirty and started it from the side.
Dribbling saliva, slumped in the deepest of rêveries, he was approached by a French accented usherette- a veritable mini-skirted caricature, advertising a take-me-from-behind coquetry; she tottered wantonly, making a beeline towards him. Continue reading “Rêverie by E. F.Hay”
The leg swept in a wide arc, missing her face by a margin. Avni scooted further back, her eyes trained on the dancer who strode across the room and leaped twice, a leg stretched one way, a hand stretched the other way. She didn’t want to miss a thing. The dancer fell to the ground lightly, the body surrendering to the fall, to the pull of gravity. In its surrender, the body defied the will of earth.
Avni followed her mother and her friend out of the studio after the dance performance.
“Did you like it, dear?” Avni’s mother’s friend asked her.
“Yes, very much, aunty,” Avni said.
Leila has brought forth from the catacombs a tale by one of our oldest friends. If you have been around the site at all you will be familiar with Mr Foote – This is what she said:
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – One Wish by Frederick K Foote”
The pomp with the primered Ranchero dropped three stacks of jackrags in the alley behind Elmo’s Adult Books and rang the bell. This happened every other Saturday afternoon. Sometimes the pomp waited for old Elmo to waddle back, sometimes he’d drive off before the fat fuck unlocked the back door. It was one of the times the pomp drove off first. Tess stood lookout, and I dashed from our side of the alley, snatched a bundle, and got back under cover with seconds to spare. Then it was off to Fort Oxenfree, leaving Elmo a little poorer.
He emerged slimy and sticky. They wiped him off and held him up, like a curious, unexpected artifact.
Reading about recent events in Bristol took me straight back to an incident that occurred some three years ago, when I underwent a crash course in consciousness raising. And, I should say, if you’re out there, Mark, please get in touch!
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