“Mr Hoffmann.”
I nod and hold the photo of my boy tight between thumb and index as the bag of walnuts with a red smudge of a scar on his temple ushers me into Mr Shaw’s presence. Mr Shaw rests his elbows on a cheap table, lit from behind by the vending machine. He shows a hand to the empty chair and I lift it to avoid a scrape on the carpet-free floor. Continue reading Fag End by Jason Beech
“No. I’ll not do it.” The man upstairs almost slammed the door off its hinges.
Peter made more marks on the pen he had been chewing than on the income column in his accounts. He stared at the roaring fire he’d set to welcome his guests. He thought, maybe, it was roaring for his business plan. The man upstairs had stopped playing ball, and now the ghost party tip-toed into Peter’s isolated joint. They chattered about the moonlit frost surrounding his historic inn and eyed dark corners for apparitions. The inn stood desolate on the misty Yorkshire Moors, and the camera-ready guests ooohed and aaahed at the silvery romance and the prospect of a good haunting.
I just love my football.
I don’t have enough skill to write a letter home, so I referee five-a-side games to enjoy it close-up. Some great players here. Dozens of teams running about side-by-side fields as if tonight’s games will influence the rest of their lives. I love their joy at the art they create with that round thing. But there’s always one or two out to muck it all up. Not by trying to stop others play – there’s room for that and Continue reading Dirty Night by Jason Beech
The walk to Shepherd’s Bush station can put a skip in your step when the sun paints rays across the street. It can make even those tower blocks, standing over the station like hard men glaring at the commuters, look inviting. However, it helps to look up from the pavement. The only problem with that is possible eye contact with strangers. I’ve forgotten how to act around them. And not just Continue reading Scrag by Jason Beech
PULP METAL MAGAZINE 