'Over Activist' by George Terry
Posted by sregan | Filed under prose
Despite every fibre of his being telling him he was betraying not only his own moral code, but that of his comrades down at the Activist Network headquarters, he would have to circumvent his qualms. He would have to enter the hangout of the weak and the misguided: Starbucks.
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'No Offence' by George Terry
Posted by sregan | Filed under prose
We'd spent two years together. Two years - and now we couldn't find the words to fill a minute.
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'The Apple Tree' by James Edwards
Posted by sregan | Filed under prose
I realised I was still clutching the letters I'd picked up from the Acosta Hotel reception ... I'd opened one of the letters walking through Iquitos. In blue script with tear-stains - I didn't have to read it to know what it was about.
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'Once In A Lifetime' by Richard Oxenham
Posted by sregan | Filed under prose
Once in a Lifetime by Talking Heads is four minutes and seventeen seconds long: just enough time for Michael Bowler to question his life...
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'Burial Rights' by Richard Oxenham
Posted by sregan | Filed under prose
The insects came ticking, buzzing and glowing from the edge of the forest. Some scuttled on frail legs, while others hovered overhead. They could sense the corpse, decomposing slowly in a shallow grave...
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'Rail Replacement' by James Williamson
Posted by sregan | Filed under prose
So tired. I'm sure the couple behind me were giggling at me just now. Perhaps that's what couples do. Perhaps I'm bitter. The busy station seems like a far-off dream...
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'The Boring Keith' by George Terry
Posted by sregan | Filed under prose
I've always hated that time inbetween dialing a number and someone picking up the phone. It gives you too much time to rethink what was probably a bad idea in the first place...
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'Dead Red Tire Tread' by Richard Oxenham
Posted by sregan | Filed under prose
He delicately places the carcass inside the bin-liner. It isn't heavy, but any part of its jagged anatomy can penetrate the plastic. The juggernaut closes in, suffocating the road...
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'Change' by Emelie Lamplough
Posted by sregan | Filed under prose
The young man's name is Steve. Years ago he'd married and moved in with his teenage sweetheart. But people grow leaps and bounds in their twenties and seeing her life in a whole new light (those were the words), she'd left within a year, taking half the monthly payments. This might not have been such a problem had his job not been cut soon after...
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'Wild Child' by Emelie Lamplough
Posted by sregan | Filed under prose
The village children scorned me. All frayed grubby rags and lion-mane hair, I wasn't one of them, that much was clear. And so I was shunned from their play. Sometimes I became the game though...
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