Ghost Town
The pipe went round a few times, with the usually intensity of a crack sessions with strangers. Conversation was stilted and forced and tended to drift off as we watched each other load the pipe and take a hit with starving eyes. Things only relaxed when the pipe was in my hand and I could concentrate on putting a rock on the gauze, holding a light to the stem, filling my lungs with the smoke, bellowing out plumes of white cocaine fumes, feeling the rush dizzying me and almost as quickly starting to fade as I passed the pipe on and resumed watching intently and awaiting another turn.
By Tony O’Neill.
The Morrissey Exhibition
Beware. The balding curator of the Morrissey Exhibition sees everything. Watching over the proceedings, wryly, from a raised platform in the foyer, maintaining an impenetrable mask of enigma. (Is that a smile on his face? A tear in his eye? Who can truthfully tell? And what is his ultimate purpose? How does he spend his free time outside of the Morrissey Exhibition?)
By HP Tinker.
Three Pub Reviews
I needed to drink fluids, while my bucking, talcum-smelling passenger clearly needed to dispense with them. Another old woman clearly needed to also, as she too fortunately passed us on her path for the Ladies, stopping aghast with a vein laden hand across her mouth at the sight of myself and the first good lady floundering in the huge armchair. ‘Help me!’ cried my bony-elbowed old woman of good intention, thrusting her hand out to the other woman who was only slightly in less need of a pee than her good self. Well, wouldn’t you know it?
By Paul Ewen.