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Sarah. Just Add Hyperfocus's avatar

SMASHED

At fifteen we walked the streets. The middle of dark streets where no cars drove because everyone else was tucked up in bed. We swaggered, laughed, smashed bottles. We sat in concrete pipes, smoked. Tobacco or weed. None of it legal at fifteen. The streets were ours.

Until they weren’t. One of us knew him, nobody knew his mates. Drunk and filthy. Louder. Bigger.

Bigger fists.

Except for John D. He was seventeen but hung with us. He knew how to fight.

Heads sound like watermelon smashing on bitumen.

He was one of theirs.

We sobered quick, ran fast, left them huddled.

I didn’t hear a siren.

I never forgot that sound.

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Lindy Newns's avatar

Rehearsal for a Suicide

Every day, my father picked me up from school. He drove in silence, eyes fixed on the road. Every evening, driving home in a stream of metal – brash, electric, screeching of brakes, braying of horn, every evening competing with the racket of the rush hour traffic, every evening, desperate to hold him steady, I sweated an endless stream of words.

That particular evening, his knuckles turning pale as he gripped the wheel,

'For God’s sake, why will you never shut up?'

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he dropped into second gear, indicated left, turned the wheel to mount the kerb, and drove slowly enough into a puzzled lamppost to scarcely dent the bonnet, softly, tenderly, as if rehearsing the crash which, two years later, would prove my failure to give him enough to live for.

He moved the gear stick into neutral and switched off the ignition. Neither of us spoke. The engine ticked as the metal cooled.

I suspect that this only has aspects of the music, Kathy talks about, so any suggestions to improve it would be welcomed.

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