Popular Fictional Prose

A few weeks later, I arrived at the pier, having spent hours jumping on and off buses, tubes and trains. My shoulders and neck were stiff and sore from lugging two heavy bags around, and I wasn't in the best of the moods. Take the town, for instance. Strong smell. Humid, sticky weather. Grey: sand, skies, metal monstrosity holding up the pier. Seagulls.

But it wasn't just the surroundings. As soon as I stepped off the bus, I got a sense that I'd visited the town before, even though I knew I hadn't. Everything seemed familiar. Each turning I took. The buildings.  The layout of the...