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#pause
We'd been delirious with sunshine that summer. It was all about bike rides, picnics, freedom. We ran to the furthest line of trees and showed our fearlessness, jumping from higher and higher branches. Then Kim jumped. We stared at her, still and crumpled in the grass.
#paradigm
Once a paradigm of society, he is now entombed in cold chip shop carnage. He smacks & snuffles, etiquette a forgotten word in a forgotten world. Satisfied in the stench of greasy life, he celebrates, steeps his soul, drenches his coat and lies soaking in his effluence.
#phobia
Koumpounophobia
Mummy had no patience with Eliza's phobia, and got so cross when she screamed and pounded her fists.
'What on earth is so terrifying about buttons?'
But Eliza couldn't tell her.
She screwed up her eyes.
They were pulling faces at her right now from Mummy's cardigan.
#paper
She drew a house, four windows, a door, a mummy, a daddy, a little girl. When Daddy hurt her, she made him the trunk of a tree. When Mummy hurt her, she made her grass. She cut the paper into little shards. Set them alight. Burnt it all - house, Mummy, Daddy and her.
It had a touch of Stonehenge mysticism, Tom thought, leaning against his rucksack, unnerved as the gentle hum of the cables crescendo'd.
In the mottled light, silhouettes emerged, dancing like crickets on hot earth, delirious with magic, yapping for souls to gobble.
His.
#pandiculation
First to wake are the words. While her body is still tugged by sleep, there is pandiculation in her skull. They arch, reaching for partners, stretching fingers to hold hands, ringing ideas. Others, yawning with boredom, break off into metaphors.
She wakes and writes.
​
#pauciloquent
Billy's dummy, Mr Rattle, had become pauciloquent.
'It's hard for me to speak when I feel low,' he whispered into Billy's ear.
A tear ran down Billy's cheek as he shut Mr Rattle in the case.
He understood completely.
It would be a while before they spoke again.
#pour
Pete wakes. Usual time: daybreak. Usual place: under the bridge. Today is a new start. He touches his stubby pastels. Stands on the bank. The man who'd promised him an exhibition will come soon.
He pours the last bottle into his mouth.
Slips.
The canal gulps him down.