Harold Pernekins was into his fourth day of fasting when the runny nose began. He noticed it immediately when he woke, the dribble marks cold and wet running down his cheek to his bed. This is only to be expected, he thought, as the toxins clear out of the body, and he quickly recovered a packet of tissues left under the bed in the last flu season. Then he rose and began to consider his day ahead.
Short stories
The Mosquito Hunter
Declan Taylor, thirty-nine years old and in no way reconciled to being forty, stepped off the oxygen-deprived charter flight into a riot of glare. White-painted concrete reflected the Greek sun into his eyes like an interrogator’s lamp. His wife, Jenny, hauling her day-bag behind him, had already snapped her sunglasses into place with immaculate ease. As they decended the steps, Declan felt for his own in his bag and came up short. Both they and, as the sun scalded his scalp, his over-priced Italian sunhat, had not made it this far.
The Whale
The sun was already at my back when I reached the farm gate. The shadows stretched out across the deserted yard. I unhooked the latch and let the gate swing open. Even if no-one was around, I thought, I should be able to get some water.
I strolled across the yard towards another gate. The farmhouse was down a path beyond. Nothing stirred the scattered hay as my boots stomped down on the dusty concrete. My forehead was damp with sweat. I unclipped the next gate.