This will hurt me...

A chicken for Ezra’s birthday, handmade by his loving mother. July 2010. [Addition: as noted by my darling wife in the comments, you can find the pattern for this chook - and it lays eggs too - at ikatbag.com .] It has been a while, but I think this week I shall celebrate Theme Thursday and try my hand at another drabble! Lucky you. BRUSH Colin was excited. A BRUSH with fame. An encounter with celebrity. A taste of the high life. A hint of something ‘better’. That was what he said he wanted. That was what he thought he wanted. Then he met Derrick. Derrick was on the Soaps. His face would be familiar. Wizened Detective # 2 . Drunken Politician on Right . Cantankerous Father-of-the-Bride . Derrick was famous, but not too famous for the number 37 tram. Colin cleared his throat. Colin adjusted his tie. Colin began to speak, “pleasant weather.” Derrick grunted and pushed passed. Colin looked out the window. The BRUSH off.

A convict peep show? I don't know! It's a hole in a sandstone building. I know that people have been dying for another drabble . Never let it be said that I'd fail to deliver (much). People Brian was a fellow who assumed that he knew why he did the things he did. A rational man, Brian had long considered his actions the result of a deliberate and clinical assessment of the facts . Ultimately, he believed that he did things because he chose to do so. Then he met Cheryl. Cheryl worked in accounts. She liked a drink, loved a laugh, and found Brian quite tolerable. After he deduced this, Brian began to suspect the soundness of his judgement. His aforementioned clarity of thought had deserted him and this caused him no end of great worry.

Yeah yeah, more boats. The other morning I spotted this scene and felt compelled to take a photograph. Here is a really short story for you. Footsteps echo on the path outside as another drunken group erupts with laughter. You hear a car door slam and an engine refuse to start. A wailing "Christ, don't do this to me now" and a "Shut the fuck up Darren" seems to blend in together with the faint aroma of the kabab takeaway up the road and the feel of rough edged polyester sheets; so you close your eyes. You think about where you are and where you possibly could be. You're shivering and wonder why it is that you can't get warm. Pressing your face into the pillow, you can still hear the noise of the street. And your mind wanders. You think about her and you think about you. The memories keep you awake. They entice. They tease. They bother your eyes when nights are cold and you know that you'll never sleep again.