Many people have sat in this chair. Some of them have died in it. Some die easy, some die hard. But everybody who sits in the chair talks. Some rush to it, as if they believe that will lessen the pain. Others hold out, gritting
It’s winter now, when I think of them. Their faded and tattered tents strung across woodworm-riddled poles. Red and white canvas stripes of reminiscent joy now merged and faded to amorphous pink, like a thrice-washed bloodied shroud. And the wonderful wooden keys and brass pipes
Gonzo ate all the lemons, Murgatroyd ate all the fish, Bruno Bumpkin hollowed a pumpkin and spat all the seeds in a dish. Holy Moley, pumpkin pie, that Dillinger guy was a felon. Holy Moley, scream ’til you die, but no other word rhymes with
She had black hair, and white skin – white so it seemed you could almost see through it – and eyes that were a shade of green only eyes could be; many shades of green, and sparkling. Bright red lipstick. Patchwork trilby. ‟Hi, is anyone
Photograph by Andrew Cheverton. Tweet
The world froze on a Wednesday, two days before the S’ha Maharr arrived.
The oldest story, as it’s told, is from near three hundred years ago.