Tag Archives: Friday Fictioneers

In the end, there was no-one left to talk to. Where politics and pandemics failed to divide and isolate, cancel-culture and censorship succeeded. It had become easier not to talk though, for fear that someone, somewhere might hear you and … Continue reading →

  “I could always come and live with you.” Her world tilts.  Uncle Joe?  In her apartment? “You’re fine here, Joe.  And they do let you smoke, within limits.” “Five soddin’ fags a day,” he complains wheezily, “I could smoke … Continue reading →

In retrospect, he was almost neanderthal – the underbite, the spiked hair, the squint. But he rode the Waltzers majestically, spinning them hard to make the girls scream, leaping monkey-like from one car to another, muscles bursting through his lumberjack … Continue reading →

  There’s time to reflect now… an outcome as unwelcome as it is unendurable. Momentum lends impermeability – stuff happens, nothing sticks. But inertia leaves him exposed – vulnerable to the actions, reactions and sensitivities of others, which is a … Continue reading →

    There were things we weren’t told. The vendors… well you could perhaps understand their silence.  But even after we’d moved in, the neighbours said nothing. I asked them why,  afterwards. It was just rumour, no point alarming you… … Continue reading →

She’s caught glimpses of him all day, dodging behind hanging rugs, peeping from dark alleyways. She’s unconcerned;  it’s happened many times before.  Her therapist describes this as working through the grieving process. She’s never heard him before though; that’s something … Continue reading →

The storm passed, as storms always do. It’s hard to believe this though, when doors slam, windows rattle and shrieking winds of despair blow a hoolie through the nooks and crannies of our home. Next morning clouds scudded across a … Continue reading →

  When the red mist lifts, as lift it surely will, he will be consumed with regret. But for now, the thrumming of his rage, the clenching and unclenching of his fists, the drumming of his heels… this is the … Continue reading →

La Jeunesse Long shadows stain the shimmering cobbles; it’s still hot for late September. Weatherworn cottages bordering the square ogle with unblinking eyes as she lifts the damp curls from her neck.  The boy from le tabac wipes down tables, … Continue reading →