She flinched as she dripped melted sugar on her arm, casting a magical sweetheart spell. The silver spoon shone in the candlelight.
Through the forest in the night blackness they crept in single file. “Turn that torch off!” he shouted, then saw the light was shining from the other man’s eyes.
Three in a bed
Three in a bed
Treble my lucky number
Up the top as high as you can go
Right down the middle, dead centre
Cool fresh fruit on hot-slept sheets
Life awakes again
Bullets spit up sand
Hands over ears we cower
No red poppies bloom
Jak thought he would write something a little different, something in a language that was not his, but it all went wrong. He thought he said he was sorry but it was not that at all.
It was an hour before. Hearts raced. People looked at the sky. This year, perhaps this year? The gates opened. So did the heavens.
I held the old man’s hand. I had never asked his stories and now, as his last breath left, the library inside him burned.
You always told me not to touch your car. It was a big thing to you. Don’t touch my car, dude. And you’d always find the fingerprint or the licked finger letter I left for you and you would say don’t touch my car and I would and you would hit me. Don’t touch my car, dude. But now, now we’ve raced one of those ridiculous races, lights off on the clifftop road, and my car, touches yours and you’ve spun and hit the wall and somersaulted and hit a tree and another and now in the moonlight your car is on its side in the olive grove,gently hissing. I touched your car. Dude.
All the stories come from the sea. They follow the rivers upstream, up brooks and burns until they reach the hilltops where the shepherds and the eagles carry them away to spread across the land. All the stories come from the sea.