Under the Table


He led in the dark, his naked back pressed against the caffeine scented carpet and biscuit crumbs. It was 3.15 am, and he was staring at the underside of the table crying. The gum stuck to his wooden ceiling were his stars, the fading Black Sabbath sticker his cloud. It had been nearly a year since he’d been with the table, he could recount every absent day, the table itself could recall none. After all, it was an inanimate object, but it was his inanimate object. The winter wind blew through the broken window cooling the room. Continue reading



He sent a heart through the post, confessing his love to me. At first I was aghast, but then I found it to be rather sweet, even if the pig heart was starting to stink.

I wrote him back with an illustration¬†of a heart, saying that I could draw one but could never give him mine. I hoped he wouldn’t send a horse’s head in disgust.

He turned up at my door demanding the heart back. I told him I’d already binned it and studied him crawling through the trash.

I returned to my room and watched it beat.


The village supermarket always joked about gifting a price for the one millionth customer, advertising it on a sign. They even had a volunteer clicking in each customer, a good joke and good work experience for the kids.

Thanks to time, forgetting they had a volunteer, and the introduction of a road running through, the one millionth customer entered, and the volunteer screamed, driven to a frenzy through excitement, tackling the customer to the ground so they’d know. The staff just stared in half bewilderment/half panic.

The prize?

A broken leg, 10% off their next visit, and a lawsuit.

Not bad.

Hot Air Balloon Over Oswaldtwistle

A hot air balloon floats in the sky, blocking the sun.

People run rampant, I’m looking for my gun. I’ll throw a rope to the sky, climb on high, bring back the light.

The rope won’t reach, my gun won’t fire, the balloon which has taken away all sight.

Instead I wait, pop some sleeping pills, pass the time till the hot air balloon floats on by.

Days pass, weeks pass, yet it stays up high.

As people adapt, the balloon floats off, as the sun burns our eyes, we long for the hot air balloon for the first time.



The kitchen floor is covered in fragments of glass. Splashes of red liquid glimmers in the morning sun, the glass sparkles like diamonds. It’s nine a.m., Monday, my hands now empty. I sit among the glass and start to weep, splashing the red liquid as if to wipe it away from my feet. Glass sticks into the skin, I grimace, I curse, I pick a piece from the floor, a long jagged piece, and start to push it against the skin on my arm. The glass cuts through and I watch as my own red liquid drip onto the floor. It’s warm. Continue reading