Tag: short story
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Themes of distant yet frequent death and subsequent unsettling grief
This place is not a welcome place. Autumn is ending. Death is close.
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The wind is soft to me tonight
The wind is soft to me tonight John is in the garden and Marge is sitting on the balcony talking to Anthony and I’m walking through the kitchen trying to find you. Someone said you were in the bathroom but that was a while ago now. They’re starting the fireworks soon and before the air
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South
Welcome to London. That’s all I keep thinking as I hammer my finger into the pedestrian crossing button.
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East
In the distance, the breakwaters surface irregularly. The intervals come and go; small shoals dashing to the surface.
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Market
Warmth swelled up; a thick fog of colour and conversation binding like thread, winding through market isles until the air was bright. It was fine stitch work.
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Train Station
Dust drifted solemnly. It scattered itself on black top hats and on the shoulders of business suits.
