The party is winding down and it’s time to make your exit. You stand in the living room mentally preparing for the torrent of goodbyes you’re now socially obligated to initiate. It is Christmas Eve.
A sprinkling of much needed rain has fallen overnight, and some of the roses have left broken mosaics of red and yellow petals on Dad’s newly cut lawn. Ideal conditions.
‘Your place or mine?’ he typed, adding then deleting a winky face and pressing send.
‘Neither,’ she replied very quickly, adding ‘obviously.’
It’s not that she wasn’t happy for her sister, far from it. Nadia only wished she could hold on to her for a little longer.
Compulsory heterosexuality rots the brain, has rotted my brain. I just wanted to undo, unlive it.
That night that the piano man and I first slept together was the night we discovered the pleasure of talking aloud about murder.
Bellies lined with pyttipanna, we refill our water bottles and stride home from the city centre towards Block 5.
Today I woke up slightly ill and with a sense of nostalgia that was only just bearable.
A glimpse into a young woman’s summer working in a quaint town in Provence on the night of an open-air concert.
Deirdre Murphy died on the 11th June, exactly three years after she should have died of a stroke. She was a despicable old bat, a snobby try hard, an utter sour puss, to name a few of her nicknames.
It’s hard being a poet in 2020
Which is when this will be published
If you have the GUTS to publish it
Which I doubt
Being bitter & twisted
Appel turns his professional interest in the workings of the human mind to a narrative exploration of the reasons we tell lies.