The Seafood Special
Saturday night in the pub, and the old man sat hunched over his plate like the weight of every wasted year had finally pinned him there. he sneezed into the crook of his elbow, the same childhood tic that eighty-odd years couldn’t burn out of him. a long, glistening strand of snot stretched from his
Train to Newport
I sit here half-dead on this rattling train to Wales, and my mind starts cranking out its cheap carnival movie, clear as the sour smell drifting from the toilet in the empty carriage ahead. there I was. cotton candy in the air, popcorn grease, the merry-go-round wheezing like an old whore on her last trick.