Finale (iii)

The page has been blank for three weeks, yet somehow the ink of the T from the pen [added: stolen or gifted from a casino one Christmas] doesn’t offer any notion of comfort. There are two girls on the table adjacent to me, the one with the [removed: longer hair] [a: Chemistry Society hoodie] from time to time slams her hands down on the table which creates a wave of stale air that makes the hairs at the edge of my [a: peripheral] vision sway in apathy. She’s just done it again. Twice. I can’t look at them anymore or I’ll.

In the hope of inspiration my sight rests on the blue purple of the Ribena bottle [a: which wobbles slightly when I cough].


Seventeen (ii)

My sister and I blu-tacked the photos to the wall – there’s twenty-one, mind the wallpaper – and the glass inserts of existing photo frames with generic scenes of cities, of fields, of disproportionate horses.

After, our reclusive table began to bustle with buffet paraphernalia and relatives, and we moved with coats, bags, drinks, and boyfriends elsewhere to a stretch of window, and windowsill, where it was discovered that there were no ham sandwiches at all. Continue reading

Waterhaul (i)

I stepped into the road, having seen the driver indicate, and saluted him in thanks as he was forced to swerve around me; my heart demonstrated that it was capable of irregularity to coerce concious thought, and as my hand continued to wave I muttered under my breath, ‘Fuck’.