NB: I'm jumping right in with fragments from my ongoing short story by providing you with the first half of Chapter Three, which foucses on a girl names Lyra and a conversation with her dog. If you like it, let me know! Feedback always welcome. “You know you don’t want to go,” the dog says sagaciously. It sits in the middle of the living room carpet, very poised, occasionally cocking its head at the girl sat at the table in the corner. She continues layering thick acrylic paint onto the canvas lying flat in front of her. “What are you painting?” “You,” she says nonchalantly, not looking up. She puts her paintbrush in the jar of water next to her, and impatiently washes the paint off. The wood makes small clinks against the glass; the water turns a filthy grey colour. “You don’t want to go, do you Lyra?” The girl shrugs. “Not really,” she dries her brush on some nearby kitchen roll before plunging it into crimson red. “But I haven’t see
I’m not sure how I’ve made it this far. Not that I’m successful, or happy, or have achieved anything. On days like this, when the sky is pale blue and the air feels like frost, and the autumn canopies arouse a melancholic nostalgia that sticks in my throat, I’m just surprised that I’m still here. I take a long, hungry drag from my menthol cigarette. The smoke mixes with the October air and fills my lungs; it feels clean, satisfying. The bench I sit on is frosted with a fine layer of ice, and it slowly melts into my jeans. I’ve put ‘In the Sun’ by Joseph Arthur on repeat on my phone as I watch the blur of strangers walk by from this campus bench. Some walk in groups of three, linking arms, heads bowed against the cold. Here, a boy on a skateboard weaves between those coming from their 9 a.m. lectures; next, a young girl in a blue beanie buys a coffee from the campus vendor; now comes a couple of housemates running self-consciously, probably late for their 10