A fractured narrative of grey twilight where half-glimpsed figures flicker through a deserted city-scape. Connection is everything, but nobody connects.
Text by DAVE WARD
Drawings by BRYAN BIGGS
For all you lonely lovers and all you loving loners, this is where you get connected. Just pick up the phone.
The flowers smell of passion. Of dust. Of dirt. Of hurt that floods a siren’s dirge up from the bloodshot river. She mixed bad medicine and no-one would forgive her.
He drives the van through streets where daughters dream they’re mothers pushing too-big baby buggies; and mothers dream they’re daughters again, out on the town in their finery with no-one but themselves to come home to. All the clocks have stopped as silent walls lean sideways in a soporific haze where the suddenly old sit with the suddenly young to watch the sunset’s slow parade.
Rafferty hashes his options, snarling at the lights. Crumbling tenements to the left, boarded shop fronts turning right. White van meshing, speeding across town, flitting unseen between half-light and neon. Payload on the dashboard. Wheels grinding round. Spinning and deceiving. Delivering and receiving.
Dave Ward is the author of Brunt Boggart, now published by Pushkin Press. Biography to follow…
Bryan Biggs biography to follow…
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