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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. […]
the heat was already a bastard at 6:15am, thick and merciless, pressing down on the city like some drunk god’s hangover that wouldn’t lift. everything felt wrong before I knew why, that dead quiet, broken by a wet, ugly confusion, the kind of sound that crawls into your gut and tells you death is close,
it could have been the fridge handle. or the front door. maybe the button on the stereo. it didn’t matter which. the dirt had found its way in. now the body was paying for it in the oldest, most ridiculous way. the eggs were already there. smaller than anything you could see. waiting in the
they threw money at you once, from the iced-up bow of the Mary Jane. a tourist boat full of bastards with cameras. snapping at the bulk sliding through the water. a blue dream on a day when the bottle’s half-empty. cameras clicking, oohs and fucking aahs pouring out of them. now it’s thirty years later.
his nine-year-old loved her nursery, and she loved climbing trees, and reading her books about history, flowers, and trains. and she loved her father, and he thought of her as he buffed his black Oxford brogues from Loakes in London. and he thought of her again when he ironed his shirt — how she smiled
the body floats on the flat sea under a grey sky. no ripple. just a heavy, waterlogged sack lifting and dropping with the swell. no fight left in the meat. he drifts like a chunk of foam, arms out, face half tilted to the clouds and half soaked in the brine. eyes open, fixed on
