masthead image - an open book


(5 stories)

His beliefs were as solid as the concrete beneath his feet; it would take a jackhammer to move him.


John was asked to mix some concrete
“We’ve no mixer John, mix it by hand”
After six bottles of hand cream
He’s got the roughest hands in the land.
Poor John

Her children laughed. She stared at the concrete, not new anymore. Chalk pictures and hopscotch, redrawn and erased. She couldn't swallow, couldn't breath. Afraid it would crack. Afraid of his remains. #130story

Owen was guilty of rape, violence and arson. Every knew it. But the evidence just wasn't concrete. YET #130story

In the half light of
early morning leaden skies,
footsteps echo down the stairs as
grey sighs rise in the gloom,
concrete walls absorb the sadness
of commuters;
prisoners of work.