The Postcard
By James Gray
Ambrose leapt from his armchair. “Get in there, son!” he said, causing Brian to drop the glass he had been cradling while he slipped into an early evening TV slumber. Ambrose found himself watching in slow motion as the IKEA tumbler bounced off the floor and, he figured, at least two quid’s worth of Jameson’s soaked into the living room carpet. Under normal circumstances he would have throttled Brian and sent him back to the offy. Two quid’s worth of Jameson’s!
The Sam Supremacy
By James Gray
The wind took its cue from the fading light and began to blow ripples across the hillside until the surface resembled a gently swelling sea of green. Sam cocked his head to one side, trying to decipher the whispers, but they told him nothing he didn’t already know. He was surprised to find that the trail was long gone, but he was still able to follow the route, guided by instinct and echoes of the past. He trudged on towards the top of the hill, pausing occasionally to catch his breath whenever the wind gathered sufficient pace to stop him in his tracks. Read more
Sauce
By James Gray - Based on a true story
Timmy’s dream was broken by a hissing noise and he awoke with an urgency, trying to remember if he’d switched off the TV set before coming to bed. His eyes were stinging and yet he suddenly felt wide awake as he stared upward. A full Technicolor image of his father appeared to be projected onto the ceiling, though the silhouettes of the hotel room’s fixtures and fittings still hung in the dark around him.
Turning Point
By James Gray
Max Harris removed a black leather glove and punched in the access code that triggered double doors of glass and brushed-steel to swing as wide open as a fake smile. He leaned his head forward and shook the collar of his trench coat with his gloved hand, anticipating and then cursing the pain in his neck and shoulders as he did so, and crossed the point of no return. He had just enough time to swing round and shoo off an imaginary flock of birds with his umbrella before the doors closed, shutting the world out and Max in. Welcome to my parlour, he thought.
Rosalind
By James Gray
Rosalind punched her arms out to either side as wide as she could, clenching her fists and stretching hard. With one hand she felt the warmth of the morning sun which shone through the shutters, creating tiger stripes on the duvet. With her other hand she patted the bed next to her until a sudden trill told her she had found what she was looking for. Agatha arched her back, a furry white circular saw blade visible above the soft peaks of the quilt, meowed and thudded to the floor, no doubt heading in search of breakfast. Rosalind slipped into her mules and, wrapping her dressing gown around her, followed Agatha’s heavy steps downstairs.