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BLOG NUMBER THIRTY-EIGHT: WE SLEEPWALK THROUGH AN ENTIRE SUMMER,BUT IT'S OK FOR WE SHALL SEE ANOTHER



Keen to crank things up a little. With that in mind, here’s a little scribble….



LEFT UNTURNED by Steven Holding.


1986 (10)


Dave’s a lippy kid. Self-proclaimed King of the playground; throws his weight around, never pulls punches. Dawn’s so shy she worries she might die of it. Hazel eyes hidden behind mum’s latest fringe (that’s as much on the piss as she is) Thinks Dave’s a pig because of what he did to Rakesh in the sandpit. When Dave flobs a greenie at Sharon, yelling LEZZA, she lets rip. Picks up a piece of flint and flings it. Dave’s in A and E for eight hours straight getting his eye fixed. It still looks a bit wonky every time he blinks.


1992 (16)


Dawn’s old man is going to skin Dave alive if he spies him. Caught in the yellow sodium glow of a flickering streetlight, failing to shin up Dawn’s drainpipe for the umpteenth time. Feral street cats screech as Dave rummages around the bins. Picks up what he thinks is a pebble, heaves when he sees it’s a lump of dried white dogshit. Chucks it away and tries again. Grabs a rock and launches it at Dawn’s bedroom window. As the glass pane shatters, Dave bricks it, then legs it. Dawn screams Dave’s name as her dad gives chase.


2016 (40)


Painfully grey days by the seaside. Lazy waves lap at the beach, retreating as the tide slides back out again. Dave trudges through the shifting shingle, boots crunching as the grit sticks in the tracks of his soles. Pausing, knees popping, he squats to sort through saltwater smoothed stones; selects the one he knows is a champion. Standing, he flips it between his fingers, pulls back an arm and then skims it across the surface of the surf. Dave hopes he’ll hit seven or eight. Thinks of Dawns impending diagnosis and silently prays that she’ll get the same.


2061 (85)


Dawn slowly bends, joints singing their constant song, the backing vocal made up of all her other aches and pains. Takes hold of a handful of gravel, arthritic digits struggling to maintain a grip upon each tiny bit, then straightens up with the aid of her grandkids. Dawn shakes her arm as if waving goodbye, spreading dirt across the open hole like she’s feeding hungry pigeons. Whispering something secret under her breath that the rest of her family can’t quite hear (MY BRAVE DAVE ALWAYS SAVES ME) she bids a final farewell to her very best friend.


2062


A Monday morning. The beginning of spring. The graveyard is almost silent; just a distant drone of traffic, an ambient, meditative tone that rises and falls like a whisper. Bees buzz amongst a plethora of colourful blooms. A psychedelic butterfly joins them, fluttering upon the breeze before finally settling upon a headstone. The marble marker stretches across two resting places, one grave fresher than the other. It bears a simple inscription.


HERE LIE HUSBAND AND WIFE

DAVID ERIC SHINE AND DAWN MAY SHINE

HE CALLED HER HIS POEM

SHE WAS NEVER AVERSE TO THIS

HAVING HEARD WORSE LINES

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BLOG NUMBER FORTY-FOUR: LEE SEES LES SELL LESS EELS....

Found this disturbing message, scrawled upon a slightly soiled napkin, folded up and tucked into my front right breast pocket after leaving my jacket in a hospital locker. TOO MUCH INFORMATION… by Den

1 Comment


Chris Lowe
Chris Lowe
Sep 04, 2023

This is a horror story but that i think so might say more about me than the story, love it!

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