I had an artist friend, described creativity as a need to get back to the point of origin; tie up loose ends. He lived with a woman hooked on heroin. She despised me without knowing who I was, described me as the type of man she detested. In slack moments she’d smile.
“I see you now. You can’t hide.”
May this year was freezing. No snow just cold nights. Raw days. I went to the allotments every morning to check on the hens. Feed them. I don’t go any more. They’re all dead. A virus Harry sez.
When I used to walk down to the allotment along the narrow paths The Gardeners keep free of weeds the frost made that sound under my feet only walking on frost makes. Crunchy-crackly Jen calls it, like she would know.
“Pines everywhere. And we have been driving in this stinking Volvo for three hours without a break.”
“A much needed coffee break, indeed!”
Joe tapped the car window a few times. A clear blue lake could be spotted behind the pines, but Joe turned his head and just missed it. He turned on the radio.
“Listen. What the hell is he talking about? Is he talking Elvish?”
“No I don’t think it is Elvis, it sounds Swedish to me.”
Ulriksberg 4 km.
“Drive towards Owhlricksburgh. It must be Norway.”
Midas Brown stands at the door of his shack and spits into the rain. When the storm broke an hour ago removing the oppressive heat of the day Midas was a happy man. Now, on reflection, as he scratches his sunken belly and listens to the water drumming against the iron overhang, he would gladly take the early evening sauna over this big shitty noise.
He digs around the cracked remains of a lateral incisor, works a sliver of tobacco loose and spits again. He knows the storm outside will pass soon enough.
He is less sure about the storm within.
Spring 1938.
Lars said to Miranda, “Understand this…” and left the table.
A series of explosions shook the six storey building but did not deter Miranda’s study of him; his untidy egress.
Through the narrow living space towards the sash window, she watched him go. Observed him at the window and after a time wondered why he found what was on the other side of the glass – a post-siesta pre-bombardment tableau in the still spring air – more compelling than whatever it was she supposed he intended to spout next.
If indeed there was more.
I wrote poetry for an illiterate. She was pretty. We made bad love in a goodly way. She wanted to live in a doll’s house near nesting swans. Furiously describing anxiety, panic attacks. I saw her through the night, but days went badly. Trauma for effect; the actress at her art. Drinking water from zippy bottles, dropped out the window when used up. The landlord never understood.
“You creeps gotta get out.”
Minutes of Meeting dated 05.11.13. 15.30pm
Those Present:
Jane McGuire – Unit Manager
Claire Green – Assistant Unit Manager
Andrew Reid – Nurse In Charge
Peter Welsh – Health Care Assistant
Mandy Fraser – Health Care Assistant
Jean Duncan – Clerical Assistant (Taking Minutes)
Continue reading “For The Best by Hugh Cron – Adult content”
It was a grey April morning in downtown LA. I’d stopped outside my office to relight a stale cigarette butt. A woman was standing on the sidewalk just a few yards away, dressed in a red two-piece, the shade of an irate poinsettia. She was looking at me.
‘You Marlowe?’ she asked.
‘That’s me, lady.’
‘My name’s Marcia Reilly.’
I noticed she was wearing a wedding ring. ‘How can I help you, Mrs Reilly?’
‘Oh, Mr Marlowe,’ she sighed, ‘I’ve lost my little doggie.’
I drew on my cigarette and looked into her anxious face. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you,’ I told her. ‘I’m a Private Investigator, not a dog-catcher.’
‘But you don’t understand,’ she whined, creasing her face as if she were on the verge of tears. ‘This one’s twenty-two carat gold, with diamond eyes. It’s an antique bracelet-charm worth a thousand dollars.’
It begins as these things often do with a man talking to an imaginary cat. This fabulous and formidable feline is not only figmentary, but also sarcastic, cynical and prone to unprovoked bouts of profanity.
“So I’m supposed to say bollocks and the like for no reason?”
“Yes, that’s the sort of thing I expect. Now shut up and let me return to my musings.”
It begins as these things often do…
“You’ve mused that already.”
“Yes, thank you for that. Now once again shut up.”
“Just saying…”
Continue reading “Crouching Feline, Hidden Lobster by Nik Eveleigh”
Put yourself in my position. You can’t stop thinking about something that happened here years ago, when you were just a child.
Three boys wake up one morning. Three beds vacated eagerly.
You remember the incident but never really knew the details. Not knowing means your thoughts are just looping around uselessly.
literally stories 