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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 grey voice crackled over the PA like some old drunk clearing his throat in the dark, spitting out the names of places nobody really believed in anymore. platform three, homeward bound, cold enough to crack. five more inches had fallen in the night and had gone to slush, working its way into the holes
Is it a shadow, or just some curled-up leaf. It’s tough trying to miss them on the black path before dawn, stumbling half-drunk on sleep with your eyes still glued shut from last night’s whiskey. you try. God, you try, squinting into the nothing, but it always ends the same: a wet pop under the
tonight, just me and my daughter tucked into a dim booth at a chop suey joint on Wardour Street. the air is thick with the hot steam of sticky rice, the green tea sharp enough to cut through the haze and remind you that you’re still alive. sweet-and-sour sauce pools on the plate, glossy and
I picked up the scrap of shopping-list paper from the kitchen counter, the one with the faded blue lines, and there it was — her handwriting, still the same after twenty wild years, looping and sure as the first time she wrote “I love you” on a napkin in that Mexican restaurant in Smith Street
the humidity comes down heavy over the whole sweating city, and we’re all gasping on the eastbound underground, choking on air thick as soup, the train rattling through the black tunnels like some endless iron beast hungry for more souls. toddlers wail and groan in their sticky seats while their mothers bend low, murmuring soft
