When I woke that morning the air was strange. I could sense it on the breeze that moved the curtains covering the open window in my bedroom. Before it consumed me I took breakfast.
The second cigarette and third cup of coffee helped clear my head and prepared me for my daily ritual – if three weeks can ritualise anything. Continue reading “Remembering Part 2 – by Ian A.”
An early morning start in late winter. The stars are shining. The engine of my small car stutters into life. The drive through my village wakes me up. It’s one of those villages on an old Roman road with cars parked on each side making it difficult and exciting to negotiate. Continue reading “The Train – by Steve Luckham”
Cartwright pushed the half eaten bowl of food across the table and sat back in the precarious chair. Six months in the country and he had still not got used to rice soaked in butter tea for breakfast. Through the smoke of a newly lit cigarette Cartwright watched the room from the vantage of a corner table. He was the only noticeably, recognisable westerner, most of the faces were familiar to him though. Even if the food wasn’t to his liking the small cafe was. The owner was hospitable and it was a great place to pick up the local comings and goings, despite the complexity many dialects brought.
Continue reading “The Attaché’s Man – by Ian A.”
Passengers talked, clicked and tapped mobile phones, worked computers, listened to music, and slept. The train slowed and a synthetic voice announced the next station. John was tired from a day full of meetings, and six hours of train travel.
A large man, flopped into the seat opposite. He smiled and breathed heavily at John through beads of perspiration that gathered on his chin and threatened to drip onto his newspaper. The hand holding the newspaper was soft and pudgy, its featureless landscape broken only by a thin band of gold on the wedding finger. Continue reading “The Rattle of the Bones – by Steve Luckham”
At 7pm on Tuesday, the weather is still warm enough for Billy to be outside in a t-shirt and shorts. He sucks a carton of Um Bongo through a straw and listens to Michael Jackson on his Walkman. Across the street, Dirty Grimshaw sits on his front step, swigging supermarket-brand lager from the can and throwing his dog-ends onto an ever-growing pile. The neighbourhood kids piss him off, squealing, as they race each other across sticky tarmac on BMX bikes. At 7pm, no-one is overly worried that eleven-year old Tania Parry has not yet returned from the swimming pool. Continue reading “Golden Tears – by Rachel Hogg”
‘Good evening and welcome to another edition of BarrTalk. I’m Dave Barr and this evening I will be interviewing an interesting cross section of society. We have Reg Miller, tramp turned publishing sensation, and Denise Stevenson, the most tattooed woman in Britain. However, before we bring them out, my first guest. He has recently made the papers with his extreme look and views. He is Trent, the Modulator of the Moirae Society. Please join me on stage. Trent!.’ Continue reading “One Voice – by Ian A.”