Smaz

I'm sure.        With an enthusiastic wink, he passed the concave glass of crimson silt to me, ensuring his hand softly touched mine in the transition. My spine shivered but my lips smiled. I imagined all sorts of scenarios to stop this horrible nightmare; a sudden heart-attack, a case of the runs, a phone call from my partner. After several awkward seconds, I resigned myself to the fact that neither of these would occur.        He smacked his lips together to emulate the taste of whatever poison was in my glass, splashed across his tongue. Smack, smack, smack. Then he did it again, his bulbous eyes locked on mine. Smack. Smack. Smack.    

She lay in the dead road, golden, crisp. Her life but a rush of colours, scattering the concrete river around her. Memories of playing in trees and dancing in fields, reveries of siblings waving at her flourish.  She'd once fancied herself an adventurer, daring to do battle against her rooted destiny, frolicking through the winds to fight the swinging trunk-ed beasts. She blossomed early, an array of boldness shining from the fancy colours she adorned. She was confident, a show-off, maybe even a flirt, but she loved every moment of it. She was such a traveller in her teens. She explored the world; countrysides of dancing corn, concrete woods

Warren arrived at the house just after 5.00pm. The sound of a thousand falling needles greeted Gareth as he opened the door, the outside unkind to Gareth's nerves. Warren stood, unimpressed, as the rain attacked his waterproof jacket, his unshaven, scruffy brown chin wet and his eyes even sadder than usual.     'It's wet' Warren grunted.     Gareth didn't respond. He was thinking about what was to come, his nerves building up. He had spent the last hour packing and unpacking various bits and pieces which could help him survive the weekend, after what Warren had told him during his visit, earlier in the week.     As Warren tapped a code int

The familiar smell of cigarettes greeted Gareth as he entered the house. The air was bitterly cold, inside, made somewhat stagnant from the smoke. Yet, this smell was what made his Mum's home his home, too.     Two more steps into the cold floored hallway led Gareth to the a chorus of singing from both the television and his mother. It must have been Songs of Praise, that religious show, Gareth thought. Ever since Gareth's grandma died, a month or two back, he had noticed his Mum lull in and out of religious programmes, holding back a pain within her eyes.     Gareth sighed. It wasn't that he hated his Mum, not really. They may have had the

Gareth Firkins felt like a kid in a chocolate factory. With his heart beating a bass he could dance to, Gareth stared up at the cascade of instrument cases. The instruments waited for Gareth to transfer his soul music into them, as did Gareth wait for the perfect time to sweep them off their feet.    As his mind raced, wondering where to dump all the instruments where no one could find them, Gareth found his thoughts sprinting back to that afternoon, before he had decided to break his way into the local scout hut. ******************** The afternoon was deliciously warm and cosy as the sunlight filtered through the bedroom window. Gareth fe

It smelt like sulphur. Acrid to the nostrils and bitter to the tongue, Feefie was a town of smouldering desolation. All you’d have to do is take one look around to reach the decision that ‘yes, my draw of socks has more life than this place.’ So why is it, then, that a single man who is well versed in the world around him, would come to such a spot?    Klom silently gazed around him, slowly treading past the dilapidated buildings and burnt bricks. The air was cold and despite the warm ashes beneath him, so was Klom’s feet. He shouldn’t have come here. It was necessary, he thought, if he was to live life anew. He