She was dressed as a belly dancer—all fake-silver coins and gauzy material—cheesy for sure, especially given her Afghani heritage, but she had the outfit already so what the hell?
Jakey, face pressed to the window and eyes cupped into makeshift binoculars, could see Mrs. Claddagh sitting perched on her couch, speaking to herself.
You don’t like her much, not that you can tell her that. Slugging along behind you, hands in pockets. Sullen as a fish despite the fucking dawn rising over the city, the glory of it.
Word of mouth gets him the job and gets him past the gatehouse. He tramps towards the house like a stray dog, turrets and crenelations coming into focus.
Thank you to everyone who submitted works. As usual it was incredibly hard to make our selections due to the stellar quality of the writings you shared with us.