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Alison Marr

Flash fiction, poetry and other musings.


October 12, 2019 | Fiction

You didn’t chub the fecking door, it was wide open and my ipad sitting out for all the thieves in North West London to nick, and my guitar and amp and not to mention my pearls, deep sea dived from PRIMARK’S lush sea beds and a leg of lamb, still defrosting on the kitchen table and my flute and my first edition of Edgar Allan Poe, so listen, ye little bollocks, just chub the fecking door when you go out or you can find somewhere else to live… Aye, maybe so, but you’ll never find another soft touch like yer auld Ma.