Photo Albums
The pictures hit him like a cheap whiskey burn, straight to the gut, no chaser. One showed a Jewish boy, maybe ten, drowning in those striped rags, the yellow star sewn on like a target for every drunk with a rifle. Another was nothing but bones twisted wrong and black smoke crawling out of chimneys
The Night Watchman
The brothel was cold, but inviting and the numbness of her panting, surreal. Unhappiness and self-pity. And then asleep, her snoring pleasurable, gentle in the murky slumber. Foul smells emanate from under the kitchen door, no whisky on the night-table, and then the market fires go out. Written by Jack Brewis