Dream of Harold Pinter
“Call me HP,” he says. “Like the sauce?” His face does not move. We drive on.
The Bees
Poetry: “The bees are going down, you know, it’s a well known fact / statistically but also purely / anecdotally, because the ground is suddenly / pebbled with the dead little things.”
A reflection in glass
Fiction: “I mean, anyone who lives in monochrome might be so preoccupied, their mind curling with sepia-tone daydreams and heavy-lidded prayers.”
Rift Valley
Poetry: “Nothing in the hushed hills, / the mute, grey ascent, to ready us for that / gash of gutted earth.”
Salt
Fiction: “They had come at the wrong time of day, really. The sun seemed to be scorching the air around them. ‘Okay,’ she sighed, sitting up and beginning to stretch to her feet. ‘Let's go.’”
neglect
Poetry: "he moves beyond reach / and I fade into relative neglect …"
Afterimage
The bedroom seemed lighter than usual, much to her annoyance. It was past two in the morning, full dark, and the only light in the room was that which seeped through the gaps in the curtains from the streetlamp outside the window. Adam hated those chinks of light, always reminded her to switch to bl
Company
He and his father had the same name, so it wasn’t really necessary for him to cross out the name on the luggage tag and re-write his own, but still, he felt as if he should. He was searching through his briefcase for a pen, so he didn’t notice the little girl standing next to […]