The Guy
When I reach the bottom of the exit ramp, I roll down my window because The Guy asks me to. I have no good reason not to. I’m a Nice Guy. The Guy seems like a Nice Guy. Don’t ask me why. He just does. You can always tell when a Guy is a Nice Guy. And Nice Guys need to stick together. Especially in Logan Square. Because there aren’t many Nice Guys like us left in this neighborhood.
The air’s cold. The Guy has his forearms resting on the driver’s side door frame. He looks around inside my car.
By Thomas Mundt.
Pretty Things in Fitzrovia
Friday November 20th, 7.30pm Upstairs at The Wheatsheaf, 25 Rathbone Place, London W1 Literary event deviser and curator (for Barbican Film), magazine writer and Associate Literary Editor of Nude magazine Jay Clifton will be interviewing American writer Susan Compo about the whole spectrum of her career, including her days as the editor of the early […]
Four Poems
Headfirst into the night
Arched behind the viaduct
Our progress framed, Victorian
The city encircled by tracks
Scarfed against the darkness
Rails scythe sparks from the black.
The road leads to Stratford
But our thoughts are of St Andrews
Our blues wrapped in blue
Leeds only days away
Nurtures our defeat
Hid, in the frozen north…
By Garrie Fletcher.