Issue 11 – Fiction

When David Henly arrived for his shift at the pub, he felt as if the place were ready to explode. He felt it in the air. He felt it in the snow. He felt it well before he stood before the door.

Hop, two, three. Hop, two, three. Hop, two, three seconds of air time. He soared, he flew, he sailed over the sun-baked field.

“The plaque wasn’t in. You were sick. The weather’s too cold. I’m swamped at work.” He’d made many excuses, my husband, but now we were finally here, in the cramped office, a quaint, white-shuttered brick building with two oversized desks crammed with papers and coffee mugs.