Fiction

Roses floated in the air. Pink and unravelling they hung for too long. Frozen, for more time than was possible.

Written using only letters from the words DESPERATELY SEEKING... Tina’s pedestal is stained and yet desire lingers. Dean spits it at sky and drinks.

A boy was killed down at the docks today. Crushed beneath a crane. A woman tells me about it as I pour hazelnut syrup into her latte.

I love Lee because she will look and look at things until she can see everything that’s there.

I think it’s true that smell is the strongest trigger of nostalgia. Just cut grass and a hint of petrol reminds me far more of my father than a photo ever could.

As the queue moves steadily forwards and I stare at the bald patch on the back of Valerie’s head, I’m thinking back to Saturday night, when you asked if I was busy, said you could get me a pass.

Cyril throws his slimy sock to the other side of the room and apologises to Stan for the shaky bunk. “Don’t mention it friend. If you can’t enjoy Me Time on your birthday, when can you?”

Somewhere else a heart shaped zeppelin floats on the horizon, a string of infants dangling from its tail, but right here there's just me and Fred, arguing outside Grand Central.