storytelling
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Sam had an extra hour for lunch, so he went home, and he took off all of his clothes and sat on the couch, and he massaged his aching feet. He lay beneath a throw and stared at the ceiling. He managed to think of his life as if it were a thin dark line
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No matter how many ways he tried to look at it it had been an awkward moment. They hadn’t exchanged phone numbers. The boy had said there was no need, that he was usually at the same club. Most nights he was there. ‘In that room downstairs?’ ‘Sometimes in that room.’ ‘I don’t even know
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‘My mother’s coming,’ said Yvonne. ‘Be careful what you say. She’s very perceptive.’ Ben nodded. Mrs Morelli walked in. ‘Hello Ben,’ she said. She lit a cigarette with the large flip-top lighter on the mantelpiece. She clamped the cigarette in her mouth, looked in the mirror, and fixed her hair. Ben watched her discreetly
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Uncle Crispin, who wasn’t really my uncle, and nor was his real name Crispin, used to wear a large blue ring on his left middle finger. He took it off to show me, but only once. I held it and turned it this way and that, frowning, as if I knew precisely what I was
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She heard the key in the door, put the lid back onto the chocolate box, and licked her fingers. He came in and threw his jacket on the floor, took off his shoes, and slouched in the armchair. ‘How was it?’ she said. ‘Dan’s worse than ever,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he’s aware
Barry Lee Thompson 