Jeanne Duval tried to stop herself from scratching her arm, a thing she did compulsively whenever she was nervous and there was no way to pace. Sometimes she scratched so much she drew blood, which at least would be appropriate today. Jeanne looked at her collage of photos covering the gallery wall.
‘I’d kill for more reviews,’ Chris muttered, downing the dregs of his pint. In his head he calculated how much was left of the twenty he was meant to hold onto until Friday.
‘I’d sell my soul for more reviews,’ moaned Sandy. The bartender chuckled but no demon appeared in a puff of smoke at the summons. Continue reading The Cabal by Graham Wynd
Tyler Fitzgerald threw himself down at the bar, sweating profusely. “Gimme a whisky.” Seeing the bartender’s scowl he added, “please.”
The man had a toy monkey. A fucking toy monkey.
Obsession: she understood obsession. He had noticed her a little—sort of goth, sort of emo—but it wasn’t until he knew the depths of her obsessions that he really took an interest. He sat behind her in English where Mr James always laughed that laugh that some of the lads thought hilarious, but most of the girls thought was creepy.