The Boy Who Cried Blood
For a hideous, elongated moment, she thought one of the estate kids had broken in and cut off his face. He wore a dry mask of blood and his white pillows were drenched in sticky red. It was only when he moaned and his sealed eyelids began to undulate like boiling pasta parcels, that she screamed with relief and ran to his bedside.
Your soft profile blends with the pillow I watch you sleep You snore gently Like static . I know this moment is fleeting
Fragile daylight Cowers from encroaching night Crouched at the edge of autumn glaze Summer scorch Has blazed its last and died
What's Your Weirdest Celebrity Crush?
What’s your weirdest celebrity crush? One that made you question yourself and your taste? The strangest crush I’ve had was on a member of a boy band called Five. Nothing that unusual there you might think, except at the time I was 30 years old and barely even aware of the group until my feelings developed.
When the Devil Moved Next Door
I was playing marbles with Lisa Perkins in the front drive and mum was hanging out washing in the back garden when the Devil moved next door.
I don’t even know why I took the pill that night. I hadn’t touched ecstasy in years, not since I’d taken three in one night and suffered a fit of intense paranoia – imagining that my mother, by then actually dead for two years, was somewhere in the club and about to stumble across me dancing topless in a huddle of similarly half-naked guys, all with eyes like black planets. Maybe it was because I’d just turned 35 and was feeling past it.
Death in the Morning
Hugo had hoped to spend the morning in bed reading another PG Wodehouse novel, but this morning his neighbour had decided to make as much noise as possible. Since about 8am there had been a constant cacophony of clangs and bangs, as if she – he thought it was a she who lived in the flat next door – were wrestling with the Saucepan Man from Enid Blyton’s Faraway Tree books. Several times he had settled back again the purposefully plumped pile of pillows, propped the book on his knees, which were drawn up towards his chest, but still under the plum coloured quilt, and read the first line.
They had been walking for weeks. Neither sure where they were heading. Neither caring. Andrew Mandrake yawned. It wasn’t unusual for a manuscript to have this effect on him, but normally he managed to get past the first sentence. To be fair to the author, David Black, it was 6pm and it had been a very long day.