I write fables about things with teeth in the forest and that bloke in the corner-shop with the dodgy smile. Whispered backyard myths and glimpses of love in strange places. Tales about beauty in dark times and the importance of a good cup of tea. You should read them.
This is a story about love, loss and countdown conundrums.
We meet in the park, in the mornings. It’s winter and the cold chews my earlobes. Seagulls squabble over chip-licked bags, the furious wheels of tricycles leave a trail of discarded mittens and bedraggled Barbies abandoned like Oates in the Antarctic.
I sit myself down on the bench next to him, ignoring the hot cat hum of my hipbones.
‘Morning Margaret’ says he.
‘Morning John’ I reply.
The morning sun slips down the grey flank of the hills and I watch him turn his face to the light, the clean cut lines of his skull etched against the air.
He raises a hand and points to wings stitched across the sky. ‘Look’ he says. ‘Geese leaving.’
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