Anything you could sing, Harry could play. Every knees-up, there he’d be, glass after glass rattling on top of the old joanna, us lining them up too fast for him to drink, all roaring along, weeping into our beer at the sad ones.
First to go, Harry was, down the street, flags out, band playing, strict march. They all went eventually. Some came back. Harry last of all.
He’ll nurse that pint all night, head shaking like some great bee’s buzzing round.
What Harry hears now, I can’t tell. I hauled the piano into the yard, let the boys smash it up.
Sharon Telfer’s flash fiction has won prizes including the Bath Flash Fiction Award (twice) and the Reflex Fiction Prize. Her stories have been selected for Best Small Fictions, Best Microfictions and the BIFFY50 lists. Her flash fiction collection, The Map Waits, is published by Reflex Press. She lives near York.
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