Tag Archives: eighties

189. Dog.

I am lying in the half light of an Autumn Sunday morning, still half submerged in the last weak waves of sleep that are only just beginning to recede, exposing the flotsam and jetsam of a new day for my … Continue reading

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141. Stepping Out

“I’m knocking.” Giz another card, lad.” “Here you go, Stan.” “Fuck. I’m knocking too.” “I’m not. What about that lot?” “Bastard.” The slap of dog-eared playing cards and the slurp of tea. The soft hiss of a Calor gas heater. … Continue reading

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137. The Jiggler

This story is for Jason, for giving me a nudge. (It’s not about him)   “It’s a job in itself sorting out the photos, isn’t it?” he says. I grunt, stare at the screen. I can feel his leg jiggling … Continue reading

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106. Four Minutes.

“Aye, it’s funny the stuff you remember,” he said. Bernie was crouched over a circuit board, huge hands deftly dabbing a soldering iron onto contacts, little wisps of smoke drifting up from the quivering silver. “I always went to the … Continue reading

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