Imogen, there's no heaven.
Three very short stories, written a number of years ago, each structured to fit in one text message on a Nokia 3310 (title not included).
Man In The Chair
Facing the wall today. He prefers the window, even when it rains, not that they know. He'd turn aside, but- The impotence is maddening, mist fills the gardens.
M2, clouds of spray to Belfast and on to Dublin. Whin at side, trees beyond, blue-barriered bridge. The inevitable Ford Mondeo. Wet road, verge, fence, church.
Home from his conference in the sun, she holds him. She always worries, and he can fix the sink. He takes off his ring. She cries at his finger tanned beneath.