short story

The Ghosts That Light Our Paths

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Janie Jones spurning his advances on the Year 3 school trip had started it all.

“Ewwwww!!” Her button nose wrinkled at his outstretched 7-year-old hand. She collapsed in giggles with Maisie Watkins.

Janie’s scorn accompanied him home that afternoon. Sat watching TV with him. Then, as if ordained by fate, he switched channels and experienced the epiphany that would make Janie Jones take notice.

Ray Toro was shredding solos on ‘I’m Not OK’ and his future was decided. He should have been at Davey’s for tea, but Davey fell off the swings and landed in A&E. So fate stepped in, showed him how to become a playground legend.

That and nicking stuff.

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Somnia Dulcia

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“Back again?”

Art nods.

“Same flask?”

Another nod. Always the same flask.

Parataxis leads Art past aimless dream browsers to the back room.

Reaches a flask from a head-high shelf. Tenebrous emerald vapour writhes and swirls within the bulbous form.

“Getting low…”

Art shrugs. Hands over two crumpled notes.

“Sweet dreams.”

Art doesn’t reply. Heads to a booth in the darkness, draws the shabby curtain closed.

The cork stopper releases easily, loose through repeated use. But snug enough to prevent the precious contents leaking.

Misty green tendrils crawl up the slender glass neck. “Like it knows me…”

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