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A sock drops. Then two. She moves again and her son’s shirt drops. A tut. She kicks them into the flat’s hallway. Cat litter up the cuff. Kicks twice more into the kitchen. Dumps the whole load in front of the washer. In an hour and a half they’ll be ready to take out, dry on the clothes’ horse. In two hours he’ll be home from his night shift. In three hours she’ll clean offices in the city. This is how time works.
Writer currently unavailable.
Please imagine a girl and clown doll at blackboard
or hum a nasal note of your choosing.
Her oyster drops. Then her purse. She moves again, bumps into the leg of a man behind her. A tut. She stands, taps. In an hour and a half she’ll be up hoovering. In two hours the firm’s manager will tell her to stop dawdling. In three hours security will arrive. This is how time works.
Writer currently unavailable.
Please imagine a photocopier error code:
a sequence of characters that reveals something to someone.
The lock sticks. She knocks. The security guard folds his paper. A tut. Thanks him as she walks through the glass door. In an hour and a half she’ll be home. In two hours she’ll be putting on another cycle. In three hours she’ll be trying to get to sleep, daylight under curtains. She walks in the wrong direction. A stone in her shoe. Stops on the Southbank. A tut. Begins to spout. Then she looks up. She thanks the mop-headed living statue for listening.
About Rhys Byrom
Rhys Byrom grew up in Hull, grew down in Liverpool, and grew out in South East London. He works as an English teacher and recently completed in MA in Creative Writing and Education at Goldsmiths. Rhys is looking for an agent to help publish his distinction-level dissertation: Plague Pamphlets, a collection of short fictions and autotheory.
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