By Monica Dickson
He loved his mug. It was bought by his best mate at Uni with the proceeds of the electricity meter at their shared digs. It was the kind you got from a card shop and showed his star sign, Aquarius. He wasn’t one for horoscopes but he liked the description of the type of person he was: ‘unpredictable,” with an “animal magnetism;” “a real dynamo.” The mug was now faded to dirty pink; scratched, chipped, the handle long broken. But he kept his fletches in it and thought often about the boy in the bedsit, full of hope and promise.
Monica Dickson has recent work published in Firewords, Salomé and online in The Cabinet of Heed.