One ink drawing by Laura Morgans, one piece of writing by Tom Spooner, every day in October – part three. Stars For ten days, the stars had not been seen. It was not that it was cloudy nor that smog or light pollution...
Category - Creative Writing
One ink drawing by Laura Morgans, one piece of writing by Tom Spooner, every day in October. Goldfinger A bright buttercup yellow cassette rests on the green grass in front of an abandoned brick shelter in the corner of the Old...
One ink drawing by Laura Morgans, one piece of writing by Tom Spooner, every day in October. Crabbing It may have been the first time I had been crabbing, I couldn’t be sure. The line, weight, and bucket of water by my...
A man lived alone in a concrete tower block. He wanted to remain alone. The angles of the tower were aggressive and forcefully juxtaposed. The concrete had been hammered into predatory ridges. The man found it impossible...
The path has tracked the river for miles. Straight and unwavering, without deviation. No detour made around an immovable geographical feature, no alternative route trampled by foraging animals, no hastily carved track to...
I had to stop the shower early the spider I had spotted a couple of days previous was making his way, with the gait of a giant, across the ceiling, on his way to turn the power off, before his limbs slowed to stationary with...
The insects had been killed on the way to the miniature model village. Victims of circumstance, splatted upon the car windscreen by forces incomprehensible to them. It was raining now too. Pinhead domes, light-carriers from the...
It echoes around the concrete, bubbles up like a witch’s brew in a cauldron, spits out into the night like sausage fat. It is cruel. But it is genuine. The skater lies on the cold ground, holding his ankles. He is...
Mrs R. Adams was married. She had no children. She had flat feet, a fondness for éclairs and a hurried excitable laugh that sounded like a wren’s warble. She also had a weight in her and longed for it to be lifted. It...
A special kind of blue descends on these days following New Year. Before the gripes and grumbles of work supplant the hourless hinterlands of Christmas time, we find ourselves in an odd unwelcoming place. Torn from the bosom of...