by James Bolton
It was approaching the end of the summer, and for Jim Stapleton that presaged the annual week at his grandmother, Gretchen’s cottage. Jim decided that, as this was his last day of work before the ominous week, he would take one last chance to enjoy some peace.
He walked home from work this day, through the park at dusk, attempting to soak up the tranquillity, willing himself not to think of that woman he was forced to spend every last week of August with. Jim lit a cigarette and savoured the searing hit it gave his throat and lungs, shivering gleefully at the brief head rush it gave him. He hoped the drug would burn away gnawing thoughts of Gretchen, and that its smoke would erase any images of her from his mind’s eye. Continue reading