Once Upon A Time Called Now Once upon a time called now, a banana sits trembling in a bowl. Rain is hitting the broken guttering to a repetitive tune, that wetting kind of rain. Tim stands there, eyes to the sky letting the rain pour over his forehead, forking left and right at his turnip nose, cascading over his loose, baggy tee shirt. Tim likes rain. It makes him feel alive. Grey looming clouds had stood threatening on the horizon for the better part of the morning and Tim had sat beaming, knowing the clouds were teasing him with their bounty. In his hands Tim holds a porous fruit bowl, in which sits one lonely banana. Tim is shaking it gently from side to side as he laughs manically. The banana is getting pretty sick of this ritual and looks forward to the day when he is made into a smoothie or finally thrown in the bin after having gone mouldy.

Once Upon A Time Called Now Once upon a time called now, a banana sits trembling in a bowl. Rain is hitting the broken guttering to a repetitive tune, that wetting kind of rain. Tim stands there, eyes to the sky letting the rain pour over his forehead, forking left and right at his turnip nose, cascading over his loose, baggy tee shirt. Tim likes rain. It makes him feel alive. Grey looming clouds had stood threatening on the horizon for the better part of the morning and Tim had sat beaming, knowing the clouds were teasing him with their bounty. In his hands Tim holds a porous fruit bowl, in which sits one lonely banana. Tim is shaking it gently from side to side as he laughs manically. The banana is getting pretty sick of this ritual and looks forward to the day when he is made into a smoothie or finally thrown in the bin after having gone mouldy.

Once Upon A Time Called Now Once upon a time called now, a banana sits trembling in a bowl. Rain is hitting the broken guttering to a repetitive tune, that wetting kind of rain. Tim stands there, eyes to the sky letting the rain pour over his forehead, forking left and right at his turnip nose, cascading over his loose, baggy tee shirt. Tim likes rain. It makes him feel alive. Grey looming clouds had stood threatening on the horizon for the better part of the morning and Tim had sat beaming, knowing the clouds were teasing him with their bounty. In his hands Tim holds a porous fruit bowl, in which sits one lonely banana. Tim is shaking it gently from side to side as he laughs manically. The banana is getting pretty sick of this ritual and looks forward to the day when he is made into a smoothie or finally thrown in the bin after having gone mouldy.

Literally The number seven bus rumbled slowly in the distance, gently shaking the bookshelf. Seventeen short stories, three poetry volumes, a small music box and a fine layer of dust gently shifted place. The sound of plates sliding and pans stirring punctuated the ensuing silence. - Damian you bastard get down here. Yelled a voice. A figure stirred in the upstairs bedroom, rising slowly from a prone position on the floor. The figure laboured down the stairs, stopping briefly halfway down to look at its' reflection in the long hallway mirror. - Shit. What a mess. It thought. It had been a week since Damian threw himself from the upstairs window. The voice in the kitchen had chosen denial as a coping mechanism, continuing her old habit of shouting at the dead man despite his departure. The lumbering figure reached the kitchen where the woman was gently stirring tomato soup. - Damian is dead remember. Said the figure solemnly. The woman continued to stir the soup, the wooden spoon making a scraping sound on the rim of the pan. - I know. Said the woman - I liked shouting at him, it gave me something to do. We should bury him the garden, I could still shout at him then. - we'll look in to it love. Said the figure and turned to make his way back upstairs. At that moment a key turned in the door, breaking the fullness of silence that filled the house. A chink in the doorway let in a yellow light from the street. Both the figure and the woman expected someone to enter yet all that was heard was the faint sound of footsteps hitting the pavement hard and regularly. The figure stalked over to the door and shut it again.