| M | T | W | T | F | S | S |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | 2 | |||||
| 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 |
| 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 |
| 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 |
| 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 |
| 31 | ||||||
Copyright Seeing it First Hand 2026 | Theme by ThemeinProgress
Written by jackbrewis
forty-five years on, and the memory blows back through my skull like smoke from a tailpipe. that day rushing in. a breeze pushing cherry blossoms around the churchyard. petals swirl down on the stone. soft. useless. the incense finds my nostrils. a thin grey ghost of smoke curls up from the wick of a candle. […]
there were these two kids on a winter bench. one reading Brontë, a face still damp from a summer that wouldn’t quit, braces glinting under the grey sky. next to him, the other one, cheeks whipped red by the frost, jaw set hard. a boy already half-armoured. they kept stealing looks, trying to stuff the
I need something else. something other than the static quiet. the heater is dead. the night frozen stiff outside, six below and dropping. I’m lying here in this wide-awake bedroom, grease from Las Iguanas still rolling in my stomach, a bad engine. refried beans burn a hole through the gut, sour and heavy. but worse
I shove the door open at this café on Milton Road, the handle all chewed up with rust bites and pits. the place reeks of burnt bacon and old grease, and it hits you in the gut, hard. “Coffee, black, eight sugars please.” I stare out the smeared window. across the street there’s a hardware
it was a big bastard of a project, the first time I saw the house, the kind of dumb hope you buy when you still believe in forever. the front fence, cast iron, 1940s, rising off its brick columns, proud and solid, untouched by the rot that had taken everything else. I made the rust
