Piece of piss.  Not that he hadn’t sweat blood, heart slamming round in his chest like a  caged animal – but still. No noise getting in, old guy didn’t even have time to stagger to his feet.  Grabbing his hair, what’s left of it, shooter to the temple, bang.  Out fast, jump-suit, gloves, balaclava in the bin-liner, shooter too.  Drop it behind the Shezan.  Home, shower.  Time to collect.

His mobile went off before he could dial.

Lo?

Glad I caught yer.  Have to make it tomorrow.

S’ done.

Eh?

It’s done.

Give over, you wanker, he’s at the bar now.

Can’t be.

I know my old man, mate.

Something slithered in his bowels.  Then who?

But I…

You losing it or what?  Nutter.  Tomorrow, right, twenty-one Crosby Drive.

Drive not Road.

And now?  No shooter, no gear, no frigging payment.  Aw, shit.  His heart imploded.

*Originally published by www.the-phone-book.com (now archived)

The way she smiled, that was the one thing, like spit.

*Originally published by www.the-phone-book.com (now archived)

Head like a hot,  furry walnut shell, heart beating at a canter; you lay curled in his arms.  He fell into your gaze.  His tears splashed upon your chest.  Fathomless.*

*Originally published by www.the-phone-book.com (now archived)

He always wanted to be an astronaut.  Surf the final frontier.  Lifelong dream.  Did his will on the computer.  Wanted his ashes scattered in deep space.  Sod that for a game of soldiers, Dot said, be Jodrell Bank or nothing.

(Posted before but this seemed appropriate to re-post given the news that the first man on the moon died this week.)

Traumatised by sell-by dates and germ scares, harangued about safety, driven from the streets, phobic about strangers, the children spent their lives indoors, surfing and snacking.  Slowly growing obese like prize marrows.

*Originally published by www.the-phone-book.com (now archived)

She can’t chuck them: her black crepe party dress, the jacket from her trousseau, Sam’s hand-smocked rompers.  Now she adds her dad’s cap.  Snaps the latches, puts the case back.

**Originally commissioned by Cartwheel Arts

She was always tense, jumpy.  Right live wire.  She only had to look at nylon and you’d hear static crackle.  Seemed a fitting way to go.

*Originally published by www.the-phone-book.com (now archived)

It made financial sense, double glazing, keep the heat in, he knew that, she didn’t have to keep banging on about it.  But he couldn’t hear the birdsong anymore, not a sodding cheep.

She was boho, vintage, he was more rock n’ roll.  They met at the retro stall in the bazaar.  Fifteen years later their son, the cuckoo child, sported suit and tie, button down collar.

**Originally commissioned by Cartwheel Arts

They all wanted to be cowboys but he liked the plaits.

*Originally published by www.the-phone-book.com (now archived)