Photo by Kevin McShane used with permission. Tweet
When Simon told me that the main problem with the Frank Henley novel The Cockfighter was that you didn’t really get to know the main character or his cock, I couldn’t stop myself from sniggering. That fact that he hadn’t intended this as a joke
The doorbell had been ringing for a long time. Florence and I sat, eyes locked across the table, challenging each other. The room was dark, lit only by candles, and extremely cold. We each wore several layers of clothing and were swathed in heavy blankets. On the table
There was blood in the dirt. A lot of it had belonged to soldiers, though a few farmers, as well as a man who repaired engines, had kept the dust sticking to itself and out of the air. The chickens scrabbled fowl runes in the
“Ah, I see what we have here,” he mused aloud. “So you accept my hypothesis,” his learned colleague replied. “Hmm, I think, perhaps, that I’m going to have to…” “Let’s say, for the moment, that there really is more to this than just a chicken
What are you doing here? This is a city. You are a chicken. You are rural and I am urban and never the twain shall meet, whatever the fuck that means. But the point is, sir, that you do not belong here. All that crowing?