Crispin Best


Your ice cream matches the girl-in-front's headscarf. (The clowns act oversexy.) Our hands. A roofhung sky claims a rattling moon. The slack trapeze.


In the film there is a city that I want my insides to cover. To begin with. And finally, I want to become something very small, glowing, small.


Our solid breath. The penguin wears a cape. (A sea lion does sums. A two foot flatfish tries to whisper, cries.)


Perhaps it is inhumane for us to step over that drowned boy. Now hands and hips. Watching things swell: trees, pagoda, pylons, fence.


Sandburied while parents wipe sun from eyes. (Two kites skypressed. Our hands.)


Was there a butcher across the room? Some kind of butcher watching over his glass while we drank? Our hands. A butcher.

Indian Restaurant

Our cutlery. The waiter's hands. Later, voweling into a toilet bowl.


For three seconds everyone is frozen. Glass-held animals murmur. Then nobody notices or just we're too embarrassed to say.


Our hands. Our mouths. The whole park is on fire. (That Frisbee melting. That man, treecuffed, screaming.) Our open mouths. Our mouth. And blaze. And rising blaze. And rising.

Crispin Best is putting together a collection of short stories dedicated to every year since 1400. He wants your help. He lives in London, next door to the house he grew up in.