The Forest

You feel safe as you traipse alone, drunkenly, from the road into the first fair branches of the forest. Only the moon, rapier silver, lights your way, as you wend through trees to that familiar clearing. At peace in this now-still scene of teenage fumblings, you sweep cigarette butts to the edge with your boots. You build a small fire, set it burning with your second-last match, and hunker down, pulling jacket and blanket round you into oblivion. Continue reading “The Forest”

Old Spice and Cigarette Scented

At last Dad came home, while we were in school, and that evening we were each allowed a few minutes in his room.

Purple.

A face turned purple.

Mottled and bubbled and lumpen, one eye closed like a boxer’s.

An ogre, a brute, a fairytale monster.

Underneath was my Dad.

Still strong, with hard hands, and black, wavy hair. Continue reading “Old Spice and Cigarette Scented”

Et Tu, Brute?

Brute

As dawn breaks over stink-hit Britain, cats arch their backs and hiss at felines they don’t recognise. Could they be the cause of the awful smell? It seems best to catty minds to urinate and defecate as widely as possible, in order to ward off a further stink-fest.

Families hold their noses as they knock back eggy soldiers, then adults despair at the ineffectiveness of magic trees in their cars. The smell shows no signs of dissipating.

At The Unspeakably Posh School for Boys, Michael and Boris are deep in conversation. Continue reading “Et Tu, Brute?”