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I dunno says the boy at the back of the class
with the flat black hair and the flat black glasses
ignoring the raised hands infront of him.
If you’re going to be like that then why bother with living at all?
the grey sky doesn’t glitter.
I sit here and
think about all the men I have sat here with,
including the one beside me.
You were my favourite.
INT. PETROL STATION SHOP. DAY.
AVRIL is behind the till, looking dazed. Natasha is the other end of the shop, purposefully mixing up the immaculately arranged drinks fridge. The glass doors open and MARK enters, smiling, and walks confidently straight to till. He’s a little older than AVRIL, wearing dark jacket and glasses, and he winks at her as he approaches. Read the rest of this entry »
EXT. A SMALL ROADSIDE PETROL STATION. DAY. A NOVEMBER MORNING.
Petrol station building, with large front window allowing us glimpses inside. There’s no noise, until three blue cars pass by consecutively, and bring with them a brief hum of tarmac under tyre. Inside the building is empty, apart from a middle-aged woman, AVRIL, busying herself. She’s too far away to be distinct. Read the rest of this entry »
Rafts of debris floated on the grey expanse: tiles, beams, the occasional armchair, all woven together like matted hair pulled from the plughole of a bath. Sharp stakes of splintered wood rose, dripping, from the water and dipped down again with the contours of the waves. Two figures in Tsunami Aid jackets waded carefully across them with the same undulation. Read the rest of this entry »
The jasmine flower
in the boiling water,
like an anemone. Read the rest of this entry »
He had been following me for days. I could just see his shoes at first, steps tapping at the corner of my eye, and no matter how often I blinked, each beat brought tears. In the meeting this morning, he was next to the potted plant, shifting occasionally, tapping that familiar rhythm. He was in step with me as I walked through corridor after corridor, until I found myself in unfamiliar spaces and circled back to my office. Now, in the clean stillness of the restroom, he had come to a stop in the cubicle next to me. His shoes were in full view under the partition, their worn soles against the grey tile, scuffed and covered in mud and grass, the laces frayed. The left shoe began tapping, tap tap tapping that steady rhythm, and in my chest, my heart matched it, beat by beat, until too much blood was pumping in my body. I was full up. Read the rest of this entry »
November beach near Dymchurch
On the cusp of saltwater.
On black and tan dunes.
Boats breasting the spires of cooling towers.
Grey-sun sealight mounting the flanks of Dungeness.
Tar-board shinglespray shoring the walls of Prospect Cottage.
Seven ceramic seahorns in the cast of a tusk of root bole.
Gull skull in a wash of flicker grass.
In runnels of seawater. Read the rest of this entry »
The President sits in his gilded chair surrounded by the clippings of his empire, the mighty mahogany desk divided up like provinces between the stacks of implements and papers. He is determined that he will know his empire, that no facet or detail will escape his awareness. Read the rest of this entry »