Here is my favourite story from Scott Andrew Bailey’s collection ‘Thirteen Tales’.
(Originally published in Thirteen Tales)
Orange light tried to sparkle off the wet tarmac. Otherwise all was still, even the three figures that lay in the road.
Two were face down by the kerb, the other was splayed out in the middle of the street. Their faces were hidden by motorcycle helmets. Leather jackets and jeans completed their ensemble.
Houses watched over them, silent witnesses. The life behind the pastel curtains was at rest and undisturbed.
A bedraggled wreath sagged at the foot of a lamppost, close by one of the figures. Notes were scattered around it, most of the writing now had run away into the gutter, the thoughts washed away.
The silence intensified, remained heavy over the scene even as the three figures stirred and slowly rose.
They pulled off their crash helmets and shook out the confusion in their heads. As they walked towards…
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