Brooklands

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TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
StorySome thumb Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryTaking a photo of workmen in Chapelfield gardens Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryThings we looked at with the satellite spy cam Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryLummy good, tum-tum and garbles Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryNiall's perspective Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryThe Hot Water Ran Out When We Were Having A Sexy Shower Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryOh lucky man Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryTwo Poems Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryThe Ditto Machines Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryPi Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryThe world is getting darker Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryTwo hundred and six bones Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StorySecret Machines Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryThe strangeness gland Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryThe Day-Star Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StorySnag Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryThe Clodhoppers Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryMy brain would empty the discos Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryNeg Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryRevelations Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryOne hundred ghosts in the loft extension Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryThe Glass Collector Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryToday is your birthday Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryStar-struck Brooklands011 years 7 months ago
StoryRoad Brooklands011 years 7 months ago

My stories

Cherry

The Salon At The Pinnacle Of Man

Relax. You will recognise him by his haircut. The razor slipped and there was a sound like the door of a tomb sliding back. Most great discoveries are accidents.
Cherry

Page 200 from a novel you have not read

The 200th page from a novel that doesn't exist

Urbanagrarian

We still live by the seasons; the knitwear came early this year.
Cherry

If it's for me, it's for everyone

Here’s what made me think of death: taking cinder from the stove, balanced on a shovel, shaking the dust over a gravelled car bay, watching it expand from breath to mist: a cape unfurled.

To the Matterhorn

Sunburnt black, Hemingway walked for days, his skis across his back like a crucifix.

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