Monday is Soup, Friday Fish, Saturday buggery or Murder
There is an evening coming in
The View is Fine From Fifty, They say
The first thing you need to know is I'm not a detective.
Tonight I go to War. Peace is a nice quiet place; I have friends over in Armistice, but the village of War is where it all happens. It is better to wait until dark.
A smear of fresh blood has a metallic smell.
Angela came back to me in a dream, her head tilted up towards me, her bulging eyes screaming “why are you doing this?”
It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen.
Frederick J Frenger, Jr, a blithe psychopath from California asked the flight attendant in first class for another glass of champagne and some writing materials.
Outside was bright, light, blue.
We are at rest, five miles behind the front.
We meet at the Butterfly Farm, Sundays, half-nine.
He seemed incapable of creating such chaos,
There was a little bloke in the aisle screaming his head off.
Carrying my father's lean old leather case, my mother's cardboard
Don't Look Now