Double Decker by Ernesto Sarezale

I thought I was the only person sitting on the top floor of the double-decker. But a muffled sound behind me made me wonder.  It was a night bus. I was immersed in the mysteries of the crime novel I was reading. I heard the sound again. It was a gasp, a rustle. 

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Patrick by Dave McGowan

In 1972, when the miners had muscles and could plunge us into darkness, I was living in Forest Hill, South London. Devonshire Road goes up to the 400s and is lined with quietly confident houses, a couple of well-ordered council estates, mansion blocks and no shops.

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Indian Funeral by George Addison

I was 26, swigging rum from the bottle in a cheap Delhi bar. A dead loss with scared fists, one step away from a murky past; still strong despite the heavy drinking, the drugs, and not eating. Strong enough to fight. Strong enough to fuck too. Faye was with me.

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