storytelling
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Everything was just as it had been the last time he’d come, except he couldn’t see her sculpture. He looked around as if it might have been blown down the road. He stopped a woman near to the Arts Centre, and said, ‘What happened to Forward Surge?’ She arched an eyebrow, and her eyes followed
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Although he hadn’t been asleep, Michael felt rested and much calmer. The room was still and peaceful, and lit by a bleed of sunlight around the edges of the curtains. He was lying on his front, and he turned his head and looked across the bed, into the mirror in the wardrobe door. Just behind
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The night before I travelled home, you asked me if I’d confirmed the taxi to pick me up and take me to the airport in the morning. ‘No. I’d better check,’ I said. You watched as I dialled the cab company. The call was very confusing to me. They were too quick to say that
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All I wanted to do was lie in the thick late-afternoon light and watch the spider in the corner of the ceiling, and listen to the cars passing outside the window, and drift in and out of sleep. But of course I couldn’t. Not while Melissa was there, threatening to talk about every little thing
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I try to change the subject. I talk to her about the beach – a place she likes to be. She once told me she’d like to die on the beach, in the sun, as people walk by. No one would really be sure if she were dead, or just sunbaking, she said. I told
Barry Lee Thompson 