Through the seashell

That night after my shift at the cafe I had dragged a couple of friends onto the floor to lay with me around the band members above. They played some new songs at rehearsal whilst I got the others to close their eyes and place their hands and feet firmly on the floor.

And a one, and a two, and a…

Waves crashed before us, and before we knew it, we had been swept up in a rhythmic sea raised up by the band. The bass was deep and slow but present and reminiscent of a lonesome whale in the dark depths of the sea. It danced around with the sound of the cymbals through my fingertips, and my feet were soon in shock from the electric eel that was buzzing and weaving in between strings of the lead guitar.

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The Krill Bay Mysteries: chapter 1.

The Krill Bay Mysteries: chapter 1.

Brian knew a good deal about Eric’s life story from the first research interview. What he didn’t know was that Eric’s life (but definitely not his story) was going to reach its final destination in one hour and thirty minutes. Nor did Brian know that Eric’s account of his past in the next forty-five minutes would contain (if anyone cared to listen and adequately interpret) the answer to why he died. This, the second interview, began at 2:30 pm Eastern Time in a small room in Krill Bay’s large central library.

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Well, that’s one answer, I guess

Steve sat back with a hearty sigh.

“I,” he said, “don’t have an answer. Don’t have any inspiration either. The series is finished. This was a guaranteed BAFTA winner; the camerawork’s exquisite, for once the animals mostly behaved, the narration… well, I don’t need to add anything there, the man’s a legend. There’s just that one little problem, and I…”

“I know,” Jennifer interrupted. “This isn’t a disaster quite yet, but it’s close. So, what are you going to do? I mean, we can’t have titles with no music, let alone that footage… which you’re right, is beautiful, and kudos to the team for it… but you’ve got some budget left, yeah?”

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Ear Worms

A thin ribbon of green viscosity slithers under a flautist’s door. It slides along walls and meets other slender ribbons – deep, glistening chestnut from the folk club, vivid scarlet from a classical concert in the town hall and vibrant, earthy umber from the mellow notes of Miles on a stereo. Together they dance solemnly, rising up, coiled together in a strange braid of colour and light, and then part to pursue their solitary tasks. They are creatures of great beauty and ingenuity.

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Go Little Queenie

The oppressive heat gave a dreamlike feel to the morning. The purple-grey clouds on the horizon seemed slumbering islands, the motionless sea a broad pane of glass, the people on the beach sleepwalkers.

            Half hidden in a rocky cove at the end of the bay, a man of about sixty was digging a hole in the wet sand with a small spade. Progress was slow, the incoming tide hesitant but sufficient to drip into his work. He retreated inside a narrow cave, muttering, ‘Should’ve come earlier.’

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The Watch

Old Dai Jones was surely turning in his grave as we traipsed up the previously forbidden track, decorated now with fairy lights and pink bunting. Women in the Nightingale Singers? “Over my dead body,” Dai had famously said.

I couldn’t even sing. Like most others, I came out of curiosity. That, and because Carol had espoused the healing benefits of group singing. I’d try anything that might help my arthritis, and it couldn’t be any worse than that yoga lark.

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The Kitkat Club

My name is Kitkat, inviting you to an evening in my club, also called the Kitkat Club. Cheesy I know.

          We are well hidden in an abandoned cellar in the corner of a private garden in Kensington and Belgravia. The club boasts a bistro serving titbits to our clients (who pay an entry fee) served on shiny plates. Scattered around are large cushions, against the walls, and small troughs full of small fish collected from gardens nearby for our clients to nibble on.

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The music of love

Aliens stand next to a Shamen with an Irish woman and baby in the foreground

Omar Tamer was near the top of the rise, looking down across the Ein-Gedi Valley, with its red boulders and tufted bushes. The goats were still grouped in a herd, grazing the succulent hackberry leaves near the old ruins. His thirst nagged, but he had to eke out his supplies for a bit more, so he just pressed his lips to his bottle and let the tepid water soak them for a few seconds.

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