Poet Introduction I compare poetry to painting, believing that I lack any drawing/painting skills but believing my imagination and training in writing has enabled me to transfer my love of visual art to the written word
They say the bike race was my idea, that Craig Winters and the others would have preferred to stay indoors that August Bank Holiday Monday. In the shade where it was nice and cool. But Craig's mum agreed with me. It's a lovely day, she said, why don't you go out and play before school starts again?
† † †Five of us rode to the clearing at the bottom of Whaley Hill. Me. Craig. Gordon. Callum Jenkins. And Callum's cousin Shane Jenkins. Or Skinny Shane, as we called him. We left about one o'clock and took bottles of squash. †
Further on lay an austere three storey-house set on a mound, surrounded by statues and water fountains and a landscaped garden that overlooked the steep side hill leading down to river and to the abandoned factories and mills.
Based on a previous novel attempt set in the Lancashire and Yorkshire borders. Genre: Psychological Thriller
I memorise the address and shut the computer down, hurrying out of the office to my car.
Outside, dusk is settling over the area with a hint of damp and mugginess in the air. I drive quickly, nearly going through a red at a set of traffic lights. I continue on along the coastal road, tight chested.
I didnít know what I was expecting when I looked for her name, but I wish I hadnít. The different surname indicates she has married since we last saw each other.
That shouldnít bother me. But it does.
Leave it alone, I tell myself as I approach the...
They say Craig and I never went to Vince Macarthur's house, only Gordon did. But I did go, and so did Craig. I remember the three of us going and I remember the house well. The faded curtains. The musty smells. The shabby carpets. The elusive dancing shadows behind the loose banisters on the staircase. The torn settee by a pile of dusty newspapers. The purple vase in the corner with a fine wiry pattern etched in the glasswork. The metal guard around the gas fire. Model aeroplanes in the sitting room. Spitfires. Lancaster Bombers.
† † †The whole place had a dark and gloomy feel,...
They say a group of teenagers saw me on the field that August Bank Holiday Monday. One called over, asked if I was all right. I didn't answer, apparently. Just continued stumbling in the direction of home, sweat dripping from my face. The teenagers didn't hang around. They assumed I had sunstroke. If I had seen myself, I would have probably thought the same.
Others noticed me wandering along the main road towards the estate where we lived. Drinkers in the pub watched me stagger like a drunk. I continued walking. Up the hill, through a ginnel, past the church. Down the hill, along...