grass issue 1

“If it attacks you, why do you keep it?” I asked.

“Because this monster, it is mine. I saw it coming towards me in the water. I did not choose to turn and flee. I caught it. I chose to keep it. This monster, it is mine.”

Another thump from the crate.

I had almost forgotten the presence of the mechanic in the room.

When I remembered, I realised he was thinking the same thing.

His thoughts were pasted on his face - time to go.

“We’ll be in contact about this object...” I mumbled as I left, though we all knew this was a formality. Neither of us would be coming back.

We forgot to pull shut the door, and as we padded down the stairs we heard the resonant voice of the sailor, reverberating from within his room “I did not steal this object from you; you cannot take it away! It is mine and I will suffer it alone!”

Saturday Someone has propped up an accordion at the bar and now everyone is singing shanties, voices echoing across the bay. I have had too many tonight, and have come outside to clear my head.

The boats are sagging tiredly in their moorings. Their ropes are crusted in rotting kelp. Beyond the harbour wall, the moon is hanging, hot and heavy, in a pool of indigo.

I wander down the restless shoreline, running my hands along the rails. I smell cold iron squeaking on my fingers. Seaweed belches on the wall. A solitary gull is swallowed by the wide moon. A bell jingles on a mast. t.v.