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.
I sway and I spin, I smile. Sometimes even in perfect moments, you begin to feel the cold creep in.
That night that the piano man and I first slept together was the night we discovered the pleasure of talking aloud about murder.
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.
You caught me, Foxglove, with your upright colour. You turned me from the river thinking I had been alone. I liked your pale and speckled belly, and the tiny fragile hairs guarding your mouth.
My grandfather who was not gay was born in 1930 in Seville, Andalusia. He worked as an itinerant labourer for the señoritos, the rich landlords, tending their olive trees and their domesticated animals.
He was a black hole in a suit. An abyss in a necktie. And he sat down next to her on the train.
Erin hesitates, watching. The old woman is there again, sitting on the swingset overlooking the valley
love is not you but a driving beat disguised in fast-moving glamour
Image: Joan Miró, Landscape (The Hare) – 1927 Chris Di Placito is a writer living in Fife, Scotland. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming in magazines such as Litro, BULL, Ink In Thirds, STORGY and Structo. The Stork Business is slow in Big Boabby’s Burgers and ah sit alone in the furthest away booth….