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I don't know when I first realised that the whole situation was causing me to feel...a way. I remember a vague sense of pretending it's fine. Especially with friends at dinner. Swatting away the concerned looks on their faces. I also remember the feeling I had when Trey came home from work and I was still in the bath. Hearing the key in the door and the heavy footfall of work boots on the wooden floor - that immediate tensing as you steel your body again.

The half-light of the hall was crowded with dust and memory, ghosts we breathed in. We spoke in shuttered voices of funeral arrangements but nobody was dead. Nobody was dead but everybody was ill. The place reeked of it, illness, of disinfectant and bodies working against themselves. Every exhalation in that place was anticipation, every inhalation a reprieve, just long enough for the next breath.

It’s easy, isn’t it, to yell fat bitch at some kid’s mum from the window of a moving schoolbus, your triumph of opinion dopplering forward into the future from the perspective of thereceiver; even easier to repeat it in the heat of an argument with her child, who then storms offto get Their Mum so you can try to say it to her face; so, so easy to deliver a message twice…

"It sits on a shelf in the dining room of the house, along with other souvenirs and trinkets from the lives being rounded out in this house. It doesn’t look like much, but amongst other things it carries memories of a working life dedicated to making the very worst things that a person can make. It’s a mug, nothing special about that, a mug hand thrown on a potter’s wheel, made from clay from the banks of the Columbia river.

It fell out of her ear at 5.27 on Wednesday. There was a rustling noise, loud and internal, then a brief blare of pain followed by fast liquid warmth and a pop. She caught sight of it falling, surely too big for a human ear to hold - but as soon as it hit the platform it was kicked on by the stride of a man walking past and went flying over the platform edge to be lost on the dark tracks below.

Everyone remember where they were It's back and it's smaller than ever! See the previous post for the general outline, this is just for the prompt. There it is. Sorry it's so horrible! Now go! Fly! Write 100-500ish words and send them to me by the end of next Friday! We shall reconvene then! Love you, byeeeee!

It’s back – in Pog form! Well, we’ve had some ups and downs over the years, eh? But ultimately microwrites is about writing. Small amounts of writing, for preference. I started th…

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