short stories, comment, articles, humour and photography
Like a pile of autumn leaves scattered by a sudden gust, the realisation reached every corner of the playground in a trice. The moment he stepped through the gates of Millford Boys’, heads swivelled. One look revealed all there was to know. From the top of his spiky bristle to the thick leather soles of his shiny shoes the new teacher was American. So American, he could’ve stepped out of a Norman Rockwell illustration in one the dog-eared copies of Reader’s Digest on the table the dentist’s. We gaped in silent awe.
Tall and gaunt, his dark red hair sculpted into a crew-cut with sharp corners, his head resembled nothing so much as a cube. A square jaw jutted from a lightly-freckled square face glowing through its honey tan with such rude health it seemed unnatural. Pale little Englanders, to a boy, we rarely saw such hale complexions, even at the height of summer. Our mothers and painful experience had taught us exposure to strong sunlight only resulted in redness and soreness. Read more
Copyright © 2012 Bryan Hemming Conil
Daily Writings About The End Of Illusions
To write about my memories, past and present
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Une fois. Encore.
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Hold your verve
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