the library was locked and bolted and it smelt of age.
The key was hidden under the stairs behind the shelf holding the emergency candles and matches.
I opened the door and saw that there was an old man writing at a desk with his back to me.
He was using a quill pen and coughing.
All passion had been spent that day in Brighton. We had checked into our favourite hotel. It was our secret bolt hole away from prying eyes.
We had been meeting for six months and every time was different.
Today something didnt work. She resisted my attempts at foreplay and I failed to get an erection.
Was it just a flirtation in the end?
I lost interest in her endless talking. She was a counsellor but had no capacity to share a silence.
When she was about to take a breath she would put her hand out as if to suggest I shouldnt respond.
That night I left the phone off the hook. I couldnt bear the idea that she might keep me up.
The money was raising no income. The deal had promised interest at 10 per cent.
She had double crossed me with a phoney scheme made up online.
It was the nearest thing to a con I ever knew but she used her sexuality to woo me.
I was left broke and depressed. She took my future.
The battered accordion lay abandoned in the derelict building. Kicked round the site by kids too young to know its history, spat and pissed on by drunks after a night out.
It served as a pillow for a homeless man.
That bench reminds me of the time when we walked along the heath in winter. The carvings of our initials echo down the years. I feel the rough edges of the arms and my mind goes back to 1963 – it was the day after Kennedy was shot. We were trying to get our heads [...]
The man had made love to his secretary for twenty years. His wife turned a blind eye until it came to his funeral. The ‘other woman ‘was banished. She sat at home while the coffin was lowered into the grave. But every Valentine’s day flowers arrived from her lover.
there is a weird and wonderful range of writing here some of them testament to mind enhancing drugs and alchohol.
The silk road was a place of ancient journeys and contemporary travellers are still seduced by its legacy.
Each year they retrace the steps of pioneers who first set out on this journey.
No one who has experienced it is ever the same again. It is life changing.
the kinder transport children never forgot their benefactor. for many years he remained unacknowledged but for those who escaped the camps he was their special hero, their saviour, their friend. Even today survivors meet to talk about him and face the past.
They found the scarf near the broken ice at the edge of the lake.
Bright morning light revealed its ruffled texture as the spring thaw allowed it to float to the surface.
Nearby a burnt out car smouldered in the woods.
You were near the scene of the killing but you did not come forward. Instead you hid from the police when they knocked on your family front door.
You pretended to be ill and stood frozen in your bedroom waiting for the footsteps to die away.
A small cough could have betrayed you.
The road kept twisting as the man driving talked incessantly about the weather.
He was smoking heavily and coughing jerking the steering wheel as he heaved his guts up over the dashboard.
He slumped over me and the car headed for the canyon’s edge.
I did try to sign up with Richmond College a few years back but they cancelled the course first night because they didnt have minimum no of students to go ahead. I will look into it again though.
Have been tempted by City Lit website.
That last bulb you planted blooms every spring. It stands out from the rows of daffodils competing for attention. The bright red tulip with yellow streaks sugggests the time we spent in Spain travelling around Barcelona’s Ramblas and spotting the transvestites.
A lock of your hair is all I have to remind me of that night forty years ago when you said you would love me forever. It sits on my bedside table framed and revered like some saintly relic in Rome.
Can the turn of a lock change your life? It did mine. That day when we opened the cellar door a hundred year old secret was uncovered. Each of us knew that we would never be the same. Our destiny was this shared knowledge and the horror of it all.
The difficult process of breaking the lock was worth it.
An abundance of riches lay in the vault. Gold bars sat piled up to the ceiling.
In the corner a tiara glistened against a single lit candle.
The canal lock was the only evidence of his disappearance. A scarf floated to the surface bright red in the dawn’s light. Ice broke on the surface. A single oar lay abandoned on the bank.
A strange call of bird song broke the silence.
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