Ian Johnson
Listen to Ian read his story
It really is the greenest place I’ve ever seen, like, Jaysus wept, and sloshed a mealy trench, a pauper’s plate – emerald/olive/pea, for pasture and pannage, bequeathed from fat forests to the commons.
I spread and heave and wish I was a working man more, like, my dad, flitting when seasoned from the grey gills of grey derricks to ancient spines and arrowheads, alder oak & douglas fir, and ornamental fallow deer, conifers & heathland marsh, and tufts of tame brush, gorse/broom/bramble – content with good ‘ere innit, and a plaque on this bench here, where we went, just the once.
His urn, entrusted, undulates between soft hands, uncaked and uncalloused, ashes unscattered. How do I tell them we’re unalike? That I like trees too, but not enough to learn their names. That I want to pluck.
I want to rip.
I want both pockets full of it.
Ian Johnson is a writer from North East England. His words appear in such publications as Trash Cat Lit, Underbelly, Bull, 3:AM, Scaffold, and Free Flash Fiction. He is a BotN nominee.
Connect with Ian
Read more from Ian:
Literary Garage – ‘Where the Waves Take Us’
Bull – ‘Hometown Quarrels’
Here on Trash Cat Lit: In the Fullness of Time, Frisson Interruptus, Reverb Confessional, A Shimmer on the River, and in our anthology HERE
TRASH CAT LIT 