Photo Albums
the pictures went in like a splinter you cannot dig out. one was a Jewish boy, maybe ten, lost inside a heap of striped rags. the yellow star sewn onto the chest like a shipping label on a crate. then page after page of bones twisted wrong, black smoke rolling out of brick chimneys into
The Jockey
the horn blows wild. tidal wave, six to one, 3:35 sharp, the bell clanging, and there she goes, the grey ghost streaking over Sandown’s green lung. punters lean into the dream, eyes wild, hearts pounding against the rail, while Mary — sweet Mary of the quick laugh — slides the coldest pint across the oak,
Uncle Patrick
the bar hasn’t changed, and neon still bleeds a sickly red down the walls. and the smoke hangs in the air like it’s got nowhere better to be. I’m on the stool next to the empty one, the corner spot where Uncle Patrick used to sit with a Campari and Soda glowing in his fist
Lucky Luke
I dragged myself along the canal path through snow that rose to the ankles, pure and untouched, no one across it yet. the cold cut at my face with a slow, steady insistence, the way old debts come back in the dark. ahead, one yellow smear of light leaked from a porthole, warm-looking, false-looking, the
The High-Hat Solo
blow by blow, the drummer’s foot stomps that pedal like she’s kicking the world in the ribs, cymbals crashing silver in the dim, hi-hat, chick-chick-chick in a wild solo to nowhere and everywhere. there she plays under the hot spotlight, the girl with the brushes and the furious heart, beating it out while the room