Sitting with Diego
The morning’s got its claws in me, a hangover squatting on my brain like a fat whore who won’t leave. There’s still a little whiskey jazz humming in the veins, warm and evil, sloshing around in the empty tank of my gut, burning sweet. We talk the usual shit—love, life, the happiness that fucked off
The Dead Letter
That summer morning was humid, bright, and busy. The girls were rushing around doing homework, digging out plimsolls, and searching for lunch boxes; raisins, cucumber, and tubs of yoghurt – packed lunches. It arrived in the morning post, bundled with bills, catalogues, and fast-food flyers. The postmark was antipodean, and the franking skew with surreal
The Honey Jar
He tormented the natives almost every day, to the point that they refused to bring his tea and biscuits. Sometimes he would hide it under his hand, sometimes up his sleeve, how it tickled, how it crawled. And sometimes he would hide it in the empty teapot, the kitchen staff already jumpy at the thought
Takeaway Food
The lovers are out there scraping hearts into the frost on some poor bastard’s windscreen, their breath fogging up the glass like cheap sex in a doorway. Rain drizzles down, soft and useless, on rows of scooters hunched in the alley, seats glazed with ice, waiting for some fool to come along and chip it