Not a ghostly scene, yet something more sinister. Ring of leaves, silent in respect, moved only by the gallish breeze. The smells of expended energy, exploded in tableaux, burnt out anger like the dying phosphors of a done for match. Playing cards strewn across the courtyard, empty slacks abandoned alongside a knapsack, exsanguinated, deflated and mournful. Struggle painted upon the ground and spread out in situ. In the middle sits a tin, memorabilia contained within; a stopped watch; plastic soldier; photograph of him and her, set in bliss before ruin; an earring; ticket stub, faded, railway journey; foreign currency.
Nic Addenbrooke is a freelance writer, editor, content creator, radio broadcaster, part-time poet and sometimes artist. Nic has been coming to terms with existence for years. He currently lives and works in Brisbane where he struggles to turn the cacophony of voices in his head into things of substance. It doesn’t always work but occasionally produces a nice veneer of sanity.