by Alan Crossan
Snow peppered stubble fields flash by with ‘Tickets please’. The woman opposite shifts in her seat, cracked paperback in her lap. Making up behind a compact, she deflects quick-fire glances.
You close your eyes and lean against the window. Its vibrations echo through your skull. Your ipod shuffles three minute memory triggers.
Nirvana. Come As You Are: A Greek beach at 3am, shielded by stacked sun loungers, peeling foam soaked denim. A drunken fumble on virgin sand.
The Stones. Paint It Black: The Union jukebox on repeat. You always got the words wrong. ‘Seagulls turn a deeper blue.’ Sipping pre-lecture coffee, the morning you got the call. They’d found her. And the note.
Skip to the next track. You don’t recognise it. You look at the screen. A track from a gig-bought CD, a friend of a friend’s band, uploaded and forgotten as it synced.
No first or last, just snow peppered stubble fields and the woman opposite
–
Alan Crossan lives near Glasgow in the rain, but hopes to remedy that at some point.
The Pygmy Giant 
#1 by jennyP on June 27, 2012 - 7:03 am
Chilling, clever, I loved it.
#2 by justafewlittlewords on June 27, 2012 - 8:30 pm
Wow, short and to the point. Plenty of feeling.
#3 by Fiona Jane Richardson on August 8, 2012 - 1:17 pm
brilliant, like all good fiction it’s what you don’t say that makes this piece, loved it.