Musings and Writing of GG Alexander

Posts Tagged ‘writing

Savage Writing: 100 words

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This week’s topic was to write two pieces, one of 100 words and one of 500 words. I gave up on the 500 word one, so here is my 100 word piece.


Floating in Space

Weightlessness soothes me. I am suspended in the deepest, blackest ocean, and soon I will forget to breathe as my suit exhausts its oxygen. I don’t think I’ll have the crushing panic that I imagine comes with a watery grave. Just bobbing along, in endless dark, just existing in this frigid womb of space. I wish I could see stars in the endless night about me.

But below turns the earth, white-blue scarred marble, home. Everything that has ever been. It’s a shame. I wish someone could hear me describe how beautiful it looked today, afterwards.


Written by G.J.

15/11/2015 at 4:11 pm

Freewrite 2

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He flicks the lighter, shuts it, throws it into his other palm. Repeats.
‘This is it. We get out of here, and we jump.’
Flick, click, shut, toss.
‘You ready?’
I nod, mechanical, my neck muscles are iron.
He stands and opens the door. The city rushes towards us as the shuttle hurtles down the cable. We cut the brakes and engines two minutes ago.
I step to the edge with him. I want to hold his hand.
He puts his hand on the button that will deploy his wings, and he looks at the city – surrounded by water, caught in a web of cable lines. Our target. Our home.
With his other hand, he pockets his lighter.
He jumps without a look back. I feel the edge of the metal doorway under my soles.
I watch him fall and – before I can convince myself that he’s okay – I push myself over the edge after him.
A flash of red. His wings deploy. I fumble for my button, trying to aim with the wind rushing in my eyes. What if I fail? How bad will it be to die like this?
Got it. Push. I jerk backwards, harness feels like its bruising my sternum. From falling, I float for a moment.
There. Paradise below me. People staring open-mouthed from shuttle windows.
He is far ahead now.
I open my mouth, turn my wings, and as I descend, rip-roaring-this-is-life, I scream.

Written by G.J.

04/10/2015 at 10:22 pm

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Savage Writing: A Little Stuck

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This week’s task was “Tales of the Unexplained.”


I’m a bit stuck at the moment. It happens. I tend to get stuck in a little loop, and it’s the more I worry about it, the more stuck I am and the harder it is to break free. It always starts when my eyes get itchy. They get itchy, then I twitch, and then suddenly I’m back where I was ten minutes, an hour, a day ago. I repeat, and I repeat, until I get to the end and – if I’m bored or relaxed enough – I just sort of slide out and blink and carry on like nothing happened.

I can’t change anything. I just have to sit back and watch through my eyes like they’re a movie screen, hearing myself talk (invariably I’m saying stupid things) and watching myself act (I’m so much clumsier than I give myself credit for). It’s a little frustrating. I don’t tend to get stuck in a loop longer than a day, thank God, because those are the really boring frustrating ones. Why didn’t I get up five minutes earlier so I didn’t miss the bus? Why did I buy that salad for lunch and not realise that it had ginger garlic dressing on it? Why didn’t I bring my umbrella today of all fucking days? It doesn’t matter; I can’t improve anything. And so much is dull. No, tell me again, Dan, how your weekend was. It was so interesting the first time. Spreadsheets are even more fascinating when you can’t even type things into them.

I’ve never been able to explain it, and no-one’s ever believed me when I try to tell them, so I keep it quiet. I’m more used to it than I was as a kid – and it was more useful then, I was able to study twice as hard by taking in all my homework and textbooks twice over, and you get more perspective on your humiliations the second time you endure them. Anyway, I’ve learnt now that when I feel my eyes itching I should just relax and sit back into it, and soon I’ll slide ride out the loop again and keep going.

I’ve learnt that. But I’m stuck now, at the moment. What happens is my eyes start itching when I exit the hospital doors, and then I’m suddenly by the parking meter again, and I have to watch myself fumble and drop my 20ps, and laugh too loudly when I tell Jenny a bad joke on the way back to the car. So far, so normal: I’m used to my clutziness, my bad jokes (it’s quite satisfying, no-one being able to hear you laugh loudly at your own puns).

We walk into the hospital. We sit and watch TV. This is where I get frustrated. I keep telling myself to turn and look at her, see her, take her in. Instead I talk to my side while keeping my eyes on the tiny screen in the waiting room showing some dreadful daytime chat show. I didn’t know anyone on it the first time I saw it. Now I know the guests’ and presenters’ names and lines off by heart. And I scream at myself to turn my head just a few inches and look at Jenny.

The nurse calls us in. I look at her arse as she walks in front of us. I cringe each time I have to repeat that glance.

We talk to the doctor. Now I’m stuck, I watch his face as he speaks. He’s in his late forties, greyed hair, lines on his forehead that foretell that he doesn’t like what he’s going to say. He keeps his face neutral but there’s the odd edge, the occasional terminal rise and starting crack in his voice that shows that he is not made of stone. I appreciate that, as the loops go by. He lowers his tone when he says “aggressive”; he raises his pitch and speeds up when he talks of a plan of action, trying to bolster us without even realising. I appreciate that, more and more.

This is what I wait for, now, with each loop: the moment when I turn and look at Jenny. Her hair is loose today. She is growing out her fringe and it hangs, parted in the middle, with its tips near the bottom of her eyes. She is wearing blue stud earrings, and most of her lipstick has rubbed off during lunch. The doctor’s words don’t hit her – I can tell that the second, third, fourth time. They bounce off her skin and don’t sink in. She nods, and sets her mouth firm, and discusses the plan like it’s a business transaction. She refuses to believe in anything except a perfect ending.

Then she looks at me, and in her eyes I see the base of her facade break. It hits her then: the concept of loss. Mortality. Me, a widower.

It’s an incredibly strange feeling, being trapped in your own head. Walking locked-in syndrome. Can you call it crying when your eyes don’t water and you can’t control your breath to sob?

She thanks the doctor, arranges other appointments. She holds my hand so tight in the corridor that I think she’ll crush my bones. But I relish that each time I loop round: her skin, tight on mine, her wedding ring digging into the base of my third and fourth fingers. She smells of shampoo most of all, even with all the money she spent on that perfume she’s wearing.

We come to the hospital doors, and she turns to me.

‘We’re going to beat this,’ she says.

She turns away before I can see that she’s about to cry. Every time, I admire how she worries about my feelings above hers, how she doesn’t want to burden me with despair, not at 2pm, not in public, not even when the world would be most forgiving of it.

The doors open, and we step out. I think about how much I love her. How I never want to be without her.

Then my eyes start to itch.

Written by G.J.

17/09/2015 at 7:51 pm

Savage Writing: Sarah

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This week’s topic was “Swapping Filth” again. NSFW.


It was August 17th 1991, when I first laid eyes on the tits of the woman who took my virginity.

It was at a toothless end-of-summer barbecue thrown by my Aunt June, the sort with more potato salad than meat. I was just sixteen and wearing baggy ripped jeans, a plaid shirt with a vest underneath, and my favourite choker around my throat. My hair was probably slightly greasy. I think it must have been about two pm when I saw her? All I remember is that I got my plate and went to the salad buffet to get some chips and dip and there, hovering over the radicchio like some heavenly sign, were her tits. Her denim shirt was tied in a knot under them, and goddamn if it wasn’t like they were wrapped up just for me. The cleavage seemed to go for miles and miles. I stared, entranced, for what felt like an hour when she reached over to my side of the table, aiming for the breadsticks.

I blinked and looked up. She smiled and said something food-related. I don’t remember exactly what it was now, but to be honest I probably never heard it. She had heavy bobbed hair, curled perfectly under at the bottom. After she put the breadsticks and salad on her plate, she pushed her hair behind one ear, only for a huge lock of it to immediately fall back out again.

‘You’re Anne’s daughter, aren’t you? Hi, I’m Sarah.’

She was a friend of my aunt’s. They went to church together.

‘Natalie,’ I said.

We didn’t say much after that. Pleasantries. I wanted her to stop talking and walk away so I could go back to ogling her. Eventually she obliged, but still I drifted near her all day, only to turn away whenever she noticed me, like a skittish fish or an insect.

At one point, I watched as she and her husband talked to my aunt and uncle. Sarah spoke as she ate, and as she lifted a nacho to her lips a dollop of sour cream fell off of the chip and hit her left boob. It remained there for a further second – tip tapering up to the sky – before she swiped it up with one finger and put the finger in her mouth, tightening her lips as she laughed at herself.

That night, in bed, I imagined licking it off of her, running my tongue up her soft skin, untying the knot of her shirt and drowning in what was beneath. I had to press my palm over my own mouth to silence the end of that fantasy.


I became her walking bitch. Aunt June said Sarah had a springer spaniel and a pointer that neither she nor her husband ever had time to walk. I offered. She was delighted. I got to see her three times a week and even more in my dreams.

Time painted me a picture of her, a watercolor made of droplets of half-hour meetings that became afternoons and evenings and more.

She would dance about her kitchen to Lionel Richie. She liked modern art but was only allowed to hang the most bland, inoffensive pictures on her wall. She loved Father of the Bride and thanked me for seeing it with her when husband was out of town again. She gave me my first taste of wine.

There’s no point being nostalgic about it. It happened, but it doesn’t really matter now. Here’s how it ends, so you know you’ll be disappointed: it ends when she puts a “For Sale” sign on the lawn the next July and then a week later I see her brown hatchback go by my house and it doesn’t even slow and I don’t even glimpse her silhouette. Her husband was later found guilty of fraud. June stopped writing to her about that time. God’s forgiveness and love, whatever, I guess. I told my girlfriend in college that she was my first because she was nervous. I breathed so little word of Sarah that I almost forgot she had happened.

Here’s what happened:

It was December. I took Bonnie and Lisa in from their walk and my fingers were frozen. Sarah was lying on the rug in front of the fire, laughing at a rerun of The Simpsons Hallowe’en episode. The dogs bounded over to her, and from the way she lost her balance trying to hug them, I knew she’d been drinking even before I saw the bottle on sitting by the hearth.

When the dogs were in the kennels and I returned to her, she was lying on her back with those mini-mountains splaying out to each side of her chest, barely restrained by her pink flannel pajamas.

I sat next to her. If she was only a little drunk, I figured, then she’d tell me it was late and that I should go home. If she was far more than a little drunk – as I suspected – then maybe…well, I’d be able to look as much as I liked…

‘Do you know what’s bullshit?’ she burst out. It was the first time she’d ever sworn in front of me.


‘Everything. Men. White houses. Ironed shirts. I used to dance until sunrise, ride around in every boy’s car, talk about art and novels and the world. Now I’m…this. Never marry, Nat. Don’t settle down.’

‘I won’t,’ I said.

‘Ha, you will,’ she said.

Her knowing, cynical tone – that’s what finally dragged my eyes away from her body. It annoyed me so much that I blurted the truth.

‘You know I’m gay, right?’

She sat upright so fast, she nearly fell right back over.

‘You are?’

‘…yeah?’ I squeaked, wondering whether I would regret it.

She gave me a deep, wicked smile.

‘Thank God.’

In later days, she would tell me of her days at college flipping between girlfriend and boyfriend, of the eventual triumph of parental pressure, of female lovers crying down the phone.

But what she did, right then, was kiss me.

Don’t think I’m a prude, or that because I was nervous I hesitated. She kissed me, not the other way around – but then I ripped that pajama top from her so fast I probably set a record. I ran my hands over her tits – sweet Jesus, they overfilled my palm – and I couldn’t resist, I trailed my tongue across every inch of them. And when she slipped her hand between my legs, and it was better than every fantasy I’d had about her, I knew – like no other time we fucked in the next six months, like no other night of my life since – I knew that I was in heaven.

Written by G.J.

20/08/2015 at 9:49 pm

Savage Writing: Blithe

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She took the 7.56 tram to the Queen Elizabeth memorial hospital on the 4th of August, and that was the day she sold her eyes. She remembered it vividly, even years later. She had crushed her ticket in sweating palms. The tram conductor found her out that day – that’s what happened – she had been showing the same ticket all month, and August the 4th was the first day the tram conductor actually checked the date on it. Yes, she had handed over the £2.50 she had brought for lunch, she had hoped that after the surgery she would be too nauseous to want to eat. That was the day they took her eyes.

Not that she hadn’t planned it for months. WANTED: GREEN EYES – HIGH PRICE. That’s what the ad had said. Those were the words that sprang out at her that night, when she was clutching her stomach to try to press away the fear. Before the words, it had felt as if a car was parked on her shoulders and was growing heavier and heavier and wouldn’t stop until it turned her into ground beef. After the words, the weight lifted, eased, until it felt as if she was only wearing a thick fur coat. She had green eyes, with perfect vision. She took a selfie in the bright light of her bathroom, sent it to the agency, and was snapped up in seconds.

They gave her the first payment at the first appointment, and that was enough to keep her afloat for a month and a half.

‘Good, healthy green eyes,’ the doctor said, shining light into her this way and that. ‘Your buyer has brown’ – always brown or blue, green and grey eyes were the rare ones – ‘and it’ll look very different. Are you prepared for that?’

Doesn’t matter how I look in the mirror as long as I can eat, she thought.

‘Of course,’ she said, with a confident smile, her customer smile, her please-don’t-get-me-sacked smile, her please-give-me-another-month-and-I’ll-pay-the-interest-I-swear smile.

Would she meet the buyer, she asked.

‘No. They don’t usually meet the sellers. As popular as it is to buy rare eyes, there’s still a certain queasiness about the practice. I know many prefer to treat it as if we simply change the colour of their birth eyes in the surgery. When people buy it for others as gifts – fathers for their daughter’s eighteenth, that kind of thing – they often prefer to mask the truth entirely.’

She signed a raft of forms, exempting the agency from any liability should the surgery go wrong, exempting the buyer from any liability whatsoever. As if she had the money to sue anyone even if it should go disastrously wrong. She’d rubbed her eyes self-consciously as a momentary wave of terror passed by, as she imagined what it might be like to be blind.

Blind people definitely count as disabled, she said to herself as reassurance. They probably got more money a month than she did.

‘You can back out at any time,’ the doctor said. ‘Even on the day.’

‘Do I have to pay back this money if I do?’ she asked.

He had blinked, as if she was the first person who had thought of it.

‘Yes, I believe you do.’

Her chains were set, then. She walked out of the doctors and went across the road and bought a massive slice of pizza and the grease dribbled all over her hands and she nearly choked for the luxury of it, eating such a huge slice at 3pm instead of working for ten hours on a stomach pumped with caffeine.

On the 4th of August, she entered the hospital. At the pre-surgery consultation, the nurse asked if she’d eaten anything that morning. She laughed. She had paid off her second credit card last night and was still high on the happiness.

While she sat in the waiting room, not long before she was called to get changed, a woman walked by. Her age was undefinable – at some angles she looked eighteen, at others thirty-five. Her lips were plump, her eyebrows were angled, and her teeth gleamed snow-white as she smiled and talked to the nurse beside her.

‘I thought, you know, “Jack’s bonus has come in, he’s already done everything for Valentine’s Day, so what else can I ask for for my birthday? I know, I’ll get the eye thing that I’ve been wanting to do for ages.” My mate Lily, she’s had it done and she’s got these stunners and I’m well jel, and I’m sorry but I can just tell that the green’ll go better with me than it does with her – though hers are a brown-green mix, she couldn’t get a pure green one – she’ll be so upset with me when she sees me. I hope I won’t have to be out for long, though, I’ve got lunch with Jack just after – I’m hoping I’ll surprise him, I haven’t told him the surgery’s today…’

The nodding nurse took the woman around a corner and the chatter faded away.

She’d expected, that if she were to ever met her buyer, she’d have envy so thick she could cut throats with it.

But she just felt tired.

A few hours later it was done. Half an hour of rest, and then she was out the door, looking around with her new eyes.

Nothing seemed different. The buyer had laser-perfect eyesight.

On the tram home, she checked her bank balance on her phone. Part of the last payment had come in already, wired in the second the hospital confirmed that she’d gone into surgery. She paid off another chunk of debt, and felt her fur coat of worry moult until she was wearing only an uncomfortable spring jacket.

At home, she went to the bathroom.

She blinked five times when she saw herself. Bold eyes, a darker, muddier shade of brown than her hair. It looked strange. There was a pang of loss as she remembered those days, that so quickly became faded memories, where she had green eyes like a princess.

The pang faded fast. She got changed, grabbed her purse, and walked out the door. There was just enough time to get a slice of pizza before her evening shift.

Written by G.J.

05/08/2015 at 10:49 pm

Savage Writing: Elephants and Mice

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This week’s topic was “Make me laugh.”


Just as his hands brushed the safe – click.

Light beamed on him from his right. Tommy span on his heels.

A second click.

‘Stay where you are.’

Sweat dripped down the back of his neck. Slowly, he turned, raising his hand to ward off the glare from the lamp.

A woman sat on the reading chair, hand holding the lampshade at an angle, directing its full force to him. In her other hand she held a revolver. She was in her thirties, curled brown hair, long-sleeved burgundy shirt cinched in by a wide tan belt, knee-length green skirt (her colouring fit right in with the rest of the study). Pencilled eyebrows. An amused smile on her lips.

Maggie. The lady of the house.

She let go of the lamp and it swung, back and forth, wobbled, settled. Still the eye of her revolver stared at him, black and merciless.

‘Good evening, Tommy,’ she said. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

Tommy didn’t raise his hands. He’d do that when he had to. Part of him doubted Maggie had the guts to pull the trigger, but the bigger part of him remembered when her horse broke its leg last fall. He remembered the grim determination she had held as she strode through the crowd – past the veterinarian, past her injured daughter – and put a bullet right in the old thing’s head.

‘You gonna call the cops, ma’am?’

‘Perhaps I will,’ she said, still smirking. ‘Or perhaps I’ll let you off easy. Lord knows you’ve done a good turn or two here.’

He ordered the burst of hope in him to pipe down. No point trusting her.

‘All depends on whether you can do what I ask you,’ she continued.

‘And what’s that, ma’am?’

She flicked the edge of the lamp, and sent its halo of light circling, hula-ing around its base.

‘Make me laugh.’

A cold chill ran down him.


‘Make me laugh. Go on, a good joke, a fine tale, make me laugh and I might think twice about getting those nice boys down here.’

I’m a goner, Tommy thought. He remembered the days at school, sitting with Pete Mason as he heckled everyone going by. He had never hoped to match that kind of wit so he’d protected himself by laughing with him instead. He thought of his lame lines on girls, their confusion, their withering looks as they walked away, how loudly they would mock him as they linked arms with their girl friends. He couldn’t make anyone laugh at even the best of times – how was he to do it now, with a gun winking at him?

‘Go on,’ Maggie said. ‘I’m waiting.’

‘Ah – uh – uh – wh – what d’you call a, um, uh – wh – what, say, does a, uh, elephant have in common with, a, uh, mouse?’

He didn’t know what an elephant had in common with a mouse. The words had juttered out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Maggie raised an eyebrow.

‘I have no idea. Tell me.’

Tommy cursed in his head and wondered which was worse: jail, or having to endure her eyes on him as he ransacked his mind for possible answers. Everything he seemed to light upon vanished the second he grasped it.

‘Well, go on.’

No, it was gone, all gone, hopeless. Would she shoot him if he turned and ran now? Probably. Her smiled faded and her lips pulled down into a scowl.


She raised the revolver a half-inch. Tommy jumped and blurted:

‘They don’t talk!’

‘…excuse me?’

Tommy felt his face burning. Light-fingered Tommy, best long-con there was, never a safe he couldn’t crack – now blushing with his eyes down like a five-year-old.

‘They don’t talk. Elephants and mice. They…don’t talk.’

He winced and closed his eyes, half-expecting her to shoot him in disgust.

Maggie burst out laughing.

‘They don’t – they don’t talk! They don’t talk! Well, damn if you’re not right, Tommy – they sure don’t talk!’

She continued to cackle. Tommy looked up. She was leaning forward, gun dangling to the floor, elbows on knees, laughing as if he’d told the best joke in the world.

‘They don’t talk,’ she said, as if to herself. ‘Hoo-ee.’

She stood up from her chair and walked towards him. As she approached the safe, she waved the gun at him, gesturing for him to stand aside.

‘You win, Tommy. Now, I’m going to show you something that always makes me laugh. My best joke.’

She turned the safe combination. Tommy watched her, instinctively memorising it, wondering what she was going to do.

The door swung open. Again she waved the gun, gesturing him closer to her. He stepped around the safe door, and looked inside.

It was empty.

‘The Hodgeson fortune,’ Maggie said. ‘Prettiest gold in the world, don’t you think? Never seen so many rubies in my life. Ha! Oh, you should’ve seen Abe’s face when I asked him to put a safe in here. “We’ll have every thief in the state trying to work here and sneak a way in.” “All the better that it’s empty, then” I said. Nice little mousetrap, isn’t it?’

Tommy didn’t speak.

‘It’s a shame, Robert – do you mind if I call you by your real name? – a real shame. A man with your history really could’ve made something, with the amount we pretend is in here. Maybe you could’ve gotten away from your past entirely.’

She shut the safe door and turned to him, the revolver an intermediary between them.

Tommy’s dreams fluttered away like startled doves. The solid heat of humiliation was all that remained.

‘You gonna call the cops, ma’am?’ he asked.

‘We made a bargain, didn’t we?’ Maggie said. The smirk grew on her lips. ‘And besides, I think it’s time that Houseman Thomas went back to his bed. He has a lot of work to do tomorrow, I wager, and after that, and the day after that, if he’s a good boy. And maybe,’ – and here her smile grew – ‘he should think a little about his favourite joke. Fine animals, elephants and mice. Elephants don’t forget. Elephants crush mice. But neither of them…’

She paused, and rolled the word around her tongue.


Written by G.J.

25/06/2015 at 7:42 am

Solarpunk Noir 1

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21.20, summer evening. It was June 13th. I was downing my favourite poison at the Saint’s Bar, one of the quieter joints in the anointed Sun City. Older joint. I was the only one there, bar Anita, who was polishing glasses and leaving me be.

Something in the air had whispered to me that that wasn’t going to be a good night – buzzes of foreboding creeping cross my brain – but I was determined to ignore that part of me and slug it down with the rest.

Still, I didn’t look up when the door opened, but I wasn’t surprised, neither. Only straightened when she put herself in the stool next to mine.

‘Hey,’ she said.

I glanced, despite my best judgement. Six foot of pure golden rays. Curls spilling over her shoulders, the most delicious zaftig femme I’d ever seen. She swung her stool and leaned her arm on the bar, leaning forward, bosoms speaking loud. I cleared my throat over their shouting.

‘Not many people come round here anymore,’ I said, signing to Anita for another rum. ‘It’s a little…archaic, for most queers’ tastes.’

‘The stained glass…the way the sunshines through it,’ she said, looking up at the windows. ‘I like it. Reminds me of church.’

She leaned further into me and it was like a light shone on my eye and I had to meet it. I looked. She had coral lipstick on tiny round lips. She smirked.

‘I like the sacrilege of it.’

Only so much a woman can take.

I downed my rum. Anita raised her eyebrow at me and turned, ignoring my sign for another. I sighed and pushed my trilby further back on my head. I had my hair pulled back in its usual bun, but nothing was sitting right tonight.

‘Look, you want a confession?’ I said. ‘I came here to drown my sorrows, not be picked up.’

‘I have a confession too,’ she said. ‘I came here looking for you…Clara Sinclair.’

Troubles. Knocking down my door. I signed desperately for another drink but Anita still had her broad back at me.

‘Meredith,’ the angel said, tipping her head. ‘That’s my name. You’ve probably guessed I have a job request.’

Defeated, I slumped over my folded arms.

‘I gotta warn you, I can’t see as I used to.’

‘Can’t, or won’t?’

How much does this bitch know, I thought.

I didn’t reply.

Meredith turned her stool around and leant her back against the bar, staring again at the patches of light barely shining through the painted bar windows.

‘My employers are looking for a woman who goes by the name of “The Mayflower.”‘


‘I heard you were the best point of contact as to her whereabouts. You have…history, I understand.’


‘That was a long time ago,’ I said, turning my face away.

‘Not long at all, if you’re still drowning your sorrows about it.’

Jessica May. My life, my light, my unrequited ball-and-chain, my perpetual hornet sting, my adolescence in two words. The pit I dug myself out from. Jess, with her big eyes and pointed nose and chin, her loud cackling laugh, her gorgeous hair spilling like a waterfall.

‘My employers have a great interest in learning her whereabouts. She’s implicated in a certain amount of…events…seen and foreseen.’

I said nothing.

Meredith took out a card from her handbag and slid it across to me.

‘If you look again, you’ll find her.’

‘I don’t want to find her.’

‘You’ll be well rewarded.’

I laughed.

‘It’d better be damn good.’

Meredith looked up from under her eyelashes at me.

‘You know the finding is the reward,’ she purred.

Then she was gone.

I won’t do it, I told myself. I ignored the card, as it stood prominent on the oak bar, like the moon in the sky, like a phone screen in the dark.

Anita slid a glass in front of me, filled with purple liqueur. I glared up at her. Good ol’ Anita, forty-two years old and six-three, born under a man’s name, best potion maker this side of Sun City.

‘What’s this?’

‘Forget-me-not,’ she said.

I grasped it with both hands and chugged it down. Sweet, violets, strong afterburn at the back of the throat. Slammed the glass on the table, tossed Anita a few coins, and grabbed my coat.

Guess I knew I was doomed from the start, if Jess was involved.

Written by G.J.

26/05/2015 at 9:45 pm

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