The Grief of a Bedsit Bomber

I am with a friend being chased down corridors. I pause for breath by a radiator and she tells me to keep moving, because they’re dangerous. Confused, I realise that she has rigged them to explode. I run on.

We barricade ourselves in a Bedsit in the basement at the end of a corridor. Russian soldiers are in the kitchen, trying to make something to eat but without using American ingredients.

I wonder how my mum is coping in the house all alone, then I remember she’s dead and grief overwhelms me.

It is mardi gras in exeter. People dress in outrageous costumes. One man wears a skin suit that makes him transparent, but not invisible. He races a go kart backwards around the track.



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