Rot by Laura Ellen Scott By way of introduction, I should tell you that when I was seven, my father took me and my little brother, Phil, on a car ride at three in the morning. We drove for hours and hours, stopping only for pop and potty. The next day, policemen took my Dad more »
‘f I told you to turn out the light would you do it?’ ‘Probably not.’ Cheryl yanks a stray thread from the hem of her boho skirt, starts twisting it round her little finger tight. So tight the bottom of her finger stays white, the tip growing purple. She pushes the purple bit back and more »
he got that tattoo for that bloke she used to mess around with. Can’t remember his name. Never wore closed in shoes. Always smelt of Chinese food. Smoked the blues. He hung around the edges of corners and seemed like he was always placed and waiting for me to walk past him. I always thought he more »
1 ou don’t know why you built a fire. It wasn’t cold. And the strip of grass between the wooden house and the wooden fence was so narrow that you’re surprised you didn’t set something alight. You were talking. About movies probably. And the computer games you hadn’t played for years. And the disgusting instant tea more »
Afterwardsness e sit in Cuppa Cottage looking at a photograph from twenty eight years ago. We both had kept a copy. Cuppa Cottage is in Sandringham and has porcelain tea cups hanging from a wooden ladder over the cash register. We sit at a corner table under a large red paper umbrella. I have a more »
It is no more according to Plato than according to me, since he and I understand and see it the same way. The bees plunder the flowers here and there, but afterward they make of them honey, which is all theirs; it is no longer thyme or marjoram. Even so with the pieces borrowed from more »