The Old Station
The old station had been sentenced to death and was now being eaten alive.
I do colouring in and reading and writing but hate maths.
The old station had been sentenced to death and was now being eaten alive.
She straightened up, pushing away from him and putting a hand to her head. Glass crunched under her shoe, and she wobbled as reclaimed her footing.
"What?" He said, head forward, arms wide.
The train was at a station and new passengers were shuffling down the isle.
It had been a week since she'd seen Him lounging in the double seat, sharp, evasive, beautiful.
As per their weekly schedule John and his wife made love on Sunday night, her head was full of Him and this fantasy blanked out Johns routine, mechanical efforts, replacing them with an imagined...
She had loved him. She was sure. That she couldn't remember the feeling she had once thought of as love made her more confused.
One summer, long ago my friends and I packed our cars and vans and took the roman road south, heading for the coast.
My friend Dave and his wife depart early the next morning. They have a daughter to say good bye to, her job in the military has called her to war and a son to rescue from recession.
It was an ornamental cherry tree, apparently. It lived at the bottom of the front garden, on the lawn side of the wall, by the road.
The space is mine. A red Mini is parked a little further down the lane, but there's plenty if room for me to reverse in and claim my prize.
I was a bit of a worrier in my teens. I worried about school, friends, girls, religion, rabies, how unfair life was and pretty much everything else.
The black Mercedes is parked at the end of the lane that leads to the train station. It is at the head of a row of cars that fill the parking bays down that one side.
When I was young I met a girl and we saw each other for quite a while. However, I never felt we were particularly close and I wasn't really sure she actually liked me.
Last week was pretty busy. Up early and working late every day. The weekend comes, and I am in sole charge of our children.
I walk into the cramped kitchen where 3 of the team are deep in conversation. As I enter, the words dry up in their mouths and one them spits out a change of subject into the pause.
Real life is better than TV.. From the office window we spy a middle aged man running towards the bus station. He seems anxious, looking back over his shoulder as if pursued. No pursuer can be seen.
I became aware that the swarm of undead that bimble around the shopping centre had found something to interest them. Someone had tried rob Carphone Warehouse.
Clothes shopping on a winter Saturday afternoon feels pretty much the same as it did when I was a child.
I was aware that trains had buffet coaches, of course, but I'd never thought of them as mobile pubs with beer etc.