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Contents Page: Jan 1, 2012, vol 7 no 4

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John Carley

The Beginning

You don't sleep. Not properly anyway. Not until the front door goes, "Snank." Drunkenly. A bit spaced out.

Fridays bad. Saturdays worse. At three o'clock you can hear his footsteps from half a mile. Thank Christ.

Andy, Irish, Miles, Maz. My beloved son, Alex. Mosher, Freak, Weirdo, Twat. All carry scars. And night time is a litany, praying for the fear of the worst to pass.

But it's what, seven? And Alex is fine. Because he's in the hall with Johnnie. At this time?

"Park," says Johnnie. " A gang. Hospital."

This was the beginning.

we write our words
on Sophie's coffin –
frost laces the grass

betrayed by man
I find I have no god

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