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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.

Posted By david lloyd On 11.25.2012 @ 3:24 am

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?

Posted By david lloyd On 11.11.2012 @ 2:40 am

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.

Posted By david lloyd On 11.04.2012 @ 8:54 am

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.

Posted By david lloyd On 11.04.2012 @ 3:35 am

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.

Posted By david lloyd On 01.16.2012 @ 11:11 am

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 round it.

Posted By david lloyd On 01.15.2012 @ 10:23 am

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.

Posted By david lloyd On 08.28.2011 @ 2:22 am

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.

Posted By david lloyd On 08.23.2011 @ 12:32 pm

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.

Posted By david lloyd On 08.14.2011 @ 1:58 am

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.

Posted By david lloyd On 08.05.2011 @ 11:05 pm

The root of the problem lay in the lack of evidence. The place had been turned over and left for dead. No DNA, no clues, no whiff of anything to link it to Dacey.

His trademark turd on the carpet was absent. The calling card had run out of steam.

Posted By david lloyd On 08.01.2011 @ 9:56 pm

My muse died in tragic circumstances and I lost the ability to be creative. Years went by and each month my frustration grew. Had I completely failed as a writer. Where was my talent? Was it buried in some pit of depression or simply locked away in a cupboard called fear? Like shifting sands I could not find the way out.

Posted By david lloyd On 07.30.2011 @ 11:03 am