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Weekly Contest #308
I can’t think back to Blackpool without hearing Northern Soul. Not just the music. Not just the classics: The Temptations, Gloria Jones, Frankie Valli, The Elgins, Frank Wilson. Bursting, rapturous, raw music - music rich and crimson and pulsing. Song names I’ve forgotten, singers who’ve sung their last. But also the sound of the dance floor. The brogues squeaking across scuffed ballroom wood. The whir of bodies twirling, legs high-kicking, hands hammering as dancers backdropped against the ground. Voices singing - earnest and frayed - sin...
Weekly Contest #285
“What time is it there?”“Almost 5pm,” he says, voice of glinting ash. I can almost taste it down the phone. Bitter, deep-toned. Outside, brash New York hurtles, clanking towards midnight. “It’s late here,” I say, my forehead pressed against the hotel window, my hand crumpled between my shoulder and the receiver.“How is it?” He asks. “New York at night?”I hesitate. I am in Manhattan - skyless, clamorous. Below, people tear through the streets, each figure a peal of laughter, obscure and covetous. Sirens blare and lights throb and everyon...
Weekly Contest #273
I’d never seen the beach sunlit. Even at the height of noon, the whole expanse was a kaleidoscope of grey. The shingle was pallid and seemingly skyless, overlooked as it was by cliffs. The water was lightless, always roiling. There was character to it all, though. A sense of changelessness - as though the beach has been this way for millions of years. It made me dream. It was why I’d made such a generous offer on the house, despite everything. The garden, though small, was wildly overgrown, billowing with creeping thistle ground-ivy. The win...
Weekly Contest #260
She looked just like me. Well, she had black beehive hair, dark lips, winged eyes - all framed by a patchwork headscarf - but everything else was the same. The chubby face, the slim eyes, the toothless smile. Even the long, freckled neck - a paint-smatter of brown across the clavicle. More a collage than a photo - a crude cut-out of my face plastered sixty years into the past. I didn’t read the caption at first. The visit so far had passed like a daydream - wispy and insubstantial. Art galleries often feel like that. Photography galleries es...
Weekly Contest #259
When she was five years old, Aisha drew a picture of Mars and gifted it to her Mum. She had used her reddest crayon. A gorgeous red - unspoiled, its tip still pointed. An unworldly declaration of love. Thirty years later, with the red planet crumbling under her boots, the drawing struck her as a little naive. The vista that unravelled before her - its arid undulations, its butterscotch sky - were all brown. She held out her gloved hand and watched the alien dust land in the palm. It looked like soil. Like gravel. It brought to mind the...
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