Beth owns two cats. Beth owns two cats, and every morning, once she has fed her cats she gets the 8:21 bus to work. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: A Yellow Raincoat in The Sorrento Sunshine
Build it. Break it. Build it, break it.
I exercise control in the small mannerisms I have adopted over the years. The minor, domestic cogs of my life, turning in perfect succession. Succinct, and ritually executed. These are the private domains of my psyche, the charts and the crosses, the changing of bed linen and the calculated hoovering of square spaces. Each chart is built of boxes, and each room possesses borders. The hoover head stops at skirting boards. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: Charge and Control
It is late December in a pub in Dublin. Poised behind the bar, a barmaid watches her customers buzz between velvet bar stools, and neglected coats. There is a plastic clock on the wall behind her, as she waits posted in front of the array of liquors, spirits and bottles of wine. The bottles are lazily draped in pound-store tinsel. Pine needles rest upon the floor with a certain authority; the endless cycle of hoovering is no match for the green pins. The air outside turns cheeks pink and skin chapped. The bar has become a haven for restless sets of boots, and men’s frozen fingertips. A sign reads, ‘Our mulled cider is a must’. Drawing in a deep breath, she marks the beginning of her shift upon the shiny surface of the clock. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: Bar Flies
Grief is a circle. Ben thinks to himself, his face is dripping wet with the rain which plummets from the cradle of the leaves above. A showering, relentless pounding upon his nose and forehead, reaching beyond the shelter of his wax green hood. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: A Cyclical Dawn
A blistered boiled egg, and two slices of toast. This is how it begins, every morning. It is how it shall continue, every morning. Put a fresh bowl of water out for the dog, reapply lipstick and double lock the front door. Get on the tube, and stare at the yellow line, rushing out of sight. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: Casual Nihilism