Pinniped

Categories: Fiction
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We know they must smell like the dustbins behind a seafood restaurant, although we can’t smell them from here. They look as cold and alien to the touch as the part of your leg that finds its way out from under the bedclothes in winter.

 

The God Quetzalcoatl Has Retired and Now Runs a Pub in South Manchester

Categories: Fiction
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He likes this new work: granting, recurrently, the single recurring prayer of the drunk; the way the sallow light drags ruby through the bottom of a pint of stout.