'Vintage' is one of two pieces chosen for the VSS anthology
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I spent sleepless nights at the fisherman's hut. Waiting. Watching.
That night, as the salt wind ached, the door was hurled. Hair in eel strings and festooned with seaweed, she opened her mouth to vomit fish and brine. Crabs clattered at her feet. She sang a sea shanty.
#vacant
The room is colourless, as whitewashed as bones, as silent as winter, as still as the dove before dawn. The bed is vacant, as empty as an echo, as cold as bled skin. I carry rocks in my chest to the churchyard and inside my skull, nothing swills with everything.
#vote
The circles voted for all the wealth and all the land. Never hungry, they grew and grew, filling the space until they popped with plenty.
The dots shrivelled in dark corners, 'Poverty' daubed in graffiti, their friends disintegrating to dust, as the circles rolled away.