Published in Nutshell Magazine. performed with live illustration by joanna layla at the alternative press festival 2012.
Across Britain in a million different homes the credits roll on a programme about holistic healing from around the world. In the last scene, Bruce Fisher, the show’s bucolic presenter, visited an African tribe where it is believed digging a hole in the red earth and addressing the goddess within will release a body’s internal demons. Continue reading “A Potted History”
Short story performed as a duologue at a Bar Wotever spoken word night in 2013.
You should never have a name that starts with a O. You’re just asking for people to moan. Take my mum, she’ll go ‘Ohhh-zan, what’d you do that for?’ or ‘Ohhhh-zan why don’t you pick up after yourself?’ Fucks sakes. I want a name that no one can be disrespecting, and one that looks wicked when you graf it somewhere.
Continue reading “My name is what? My name is who?”
Happiness slouches at the reception desk, legs akimbo. The phone rings and her eyes roll. She monotones “Goodmorninghowcanihelp?” into the receiver before saying “no Dr Mohammed’s not here now, call back later” and jams the phone down. She rocks gently in the swivel chair, a nasal inhaler dangling from one nostril. Dr Mohammed is standing in front of her, patiently waiting to give her some scanning. Continue reading “Clinic”
It’s Friday. I’ve got my ticket. The jackpot is £112million. I could win it all.
“Have you got your ticket?” I ask Sue who sits across from me.
“Ticket for what?” Sue says. She looks at me.
“The Euromillions. It’s a rollover. You could win £112million. Aren’t you going to buy a ticket?”” Continue reading “Release The Balls”
It was an unusual name; that’s why she noticed it. The clean cut of the black Arial font against the whiteness of the low grade headed paper made the letters of his surname stand out. Dissanayake, James, G. But what was his name doing in this letter, which was addressed to her and dropped through her door over 15 years later? Continue reading “Moved On”
featured in the read horse zine.
Neal Sommersby isn’t used to being home during the daylight hours of a working week. His house looks different; it feels different. He’d hesitate to say it out loud, but he swears it even smells different. Continue reading “In Bloom”
Given an honorable mention by the Five Stop Story competition Oct 2011.
Cars were crying in the road. Sorrowful Mazdas sobbed shrilly, tears collecting in their bumpers, while smaller vehicles, one Ford Ka in particular, let out piercing bouts of electronic histrionics. It was the rain, throwing moist boulders down to street level, lolloping parcels of saliva from a heavenly mouth that slooped on contact with metal roofs, boots and bonnets. Despite the screeching, Karen would have given anything to be in a car right now. Continue reading “159”
Story for Issue 7 of The Read Horse: Silence, Obsession & Daytime TV.
Outside it is cold but bright, a perfect November, but inside it’s snowing sideways. White noise is coming from Dave’s wood lacquered TV set. It’s so old and swollen that the legs of the stand are buckled and it barely stays upright. Nonetheless, static snow is flaking outwards from the glass dome on a collision course for Dave’s face. The heater is on full flow so the heavy atmosphere captures each flake and the static moves slowly as if held in setting resin. Like the universe expanding; like Dave’s universe expanding. Continue reading “Mania, He Wrote”
Story for The Read Horse Issue 8: Mist, Landlords & Victorian London.
Southwark Sal stepped astride the bawdy boards of the Peckham Music Hall for her final performance. Her hit song Mudlarkin’ Abowt, was a pungent tale of love, mud and scavenged silver which she performed at four venues a night, every night, for the past ‘alf score years. The lines were simple enough, but on this night she stumbled on the last verse and clumsily rhymed the word ‘dauwghter’ with ‘ouwghta’ and floundered entirely on the word ‘wawter’. Continue reading “Take Your Pick”
Story for The Read Horse Issue 5: Mountains, Whispers and Betrayal
Under the benevolent watch of a large oak at the heart of the estate, the Lugard Park drinkers broke open another day with the tssszzzt of special brew. The clear sky mixed with children’s voices from the nearby school. A group of unemployed men compared pitbulls by the chip shop and crumpled page-3 nudes compared breasts in the gutter. Continue reading “Whisper”