His head thrummed through mixed conversations which crept down the aisle of the 35 bus. He patted the saxophone case.
He wasn’t musical. He preferred to write short stories since his psychotic breakdown.
He could have walked to High Street, but the hot Edinburgh summer made the Kalashnikov especially heavy.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration.