Sam stares up at the giant letters above him, lit in neon. XLR8. He looks at the scrote who took his money, leaning back with a girl on his lap as he chews gum and waits for a man of about 60, with mutton-chop sideburns and tired, mean eyes, to pull down the safety bar.
Tonight I sleep in shallow waves, like telephone wires alongside a motorway, never quite letting go. I briefly dream of Evie and then wake with a start as Norris starts hurling abuse at an arguing couple one aisle down.
I just noticed I passed 2,000 likes today, exactly three months after starting this nonsense. Thank you so much to everyone who reads. There are far more of you than I ever imagined.
Alexander slurps on his Pepsi as he waits for the call, his van idling with a rhythmic grumble in the dark lay-by.
‘Who the hell are you people?’
Laura suspects she blacked out, but cannot be sure, or at least cannot be sure she is awake again.
I hear the accusation, though it is never spoken, never actually presented to me. It is evident enough though, obvious in your involuntary glance away. The eyes tell a thousand truths the mouth dare not.
This has been coming. I feel like I’ve been running on empty for a few days and so, after 86 consecutive days of new fiction, I have to bring the run to an end.
