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New Irish Voices
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Liberty Walks Naked
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Done Dating DJs
Done Dating DJs
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Richesses: Francophone Songwriter Poets
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FELSTEAD & WADDELL

 

 

Felstead & Waddell

Felstead and Waddell live in Brighton, UK. They meet once a week. They each write a story. They swap the stories and rewrite them. Every story is 100 words long. Two of the hair stories are 101 words long. Sorry about this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Hair Stories

 

Angel

This is a love story. A girl called Angel lived next door. There was something small wrong with her. She would run every day to swing in the park. I remember Angel's laugh - the way her hair turned red - how her legs caught the light. She let me do what I liked. Then I moved away. Then I married. Then I left my wife. Other not so good things happened. I came home. The first person I saw was Angel. Her hair was grey. I said hello. She got off the swing. She kissed me. I took her home. 

 

The Fascist and the Fly

At 7.33am Manuel Albinini leaves for work. Every morning I watch this man. His hair is slick, his moustache is trimmed, and the shine on his shoes reflects a sanitary and disciplined life. Late at night, when the lights are on, I can see into his apartment. It is a world of white tiles and marble floors – all Wagner and disinfectant. Christ, it makes my teeth ache. Anyway, yesterday, whilst he was out, I posted a live fly through his letterbox. This morning, at 7.36, I watched Manuel Albinini leave for work. His top button was undone. He looked distinctly unshaven.

 

Hayden’s New Haircut

I have known Hayden Lewes for a very long time – from when we were at school, in fact. And in that whole time his hair never changed. He kept it long and neglected looking. I liked it. I thought it went well with his personality, which has always been charmingly passive. But then last week Hayden got himself a new haircut. It is closely cropped. It looks darker. It makes his face look bigger. His neck is bare. I am almost embarrassed by the sight of Hayden’s bare neck. It is long and pale, and I want to touch it.

 

A woman’s place is in the home

Sylvia Brown, business woman and lover - waterfalls of golden hair running down her back. She gets out of bed and pulls back the curtains. Light splashes through the house. Clean teeth, patent heels and a brief case crammed with papers. There is the sound of water and of beautiful eating. I close my eyes and watch her gently sipping tea. I hear her go. I get up. The air is cold, but her smell lingers and I breathe it in. The kettle is still warm. My wife has gone to work. I love her. I will miss her terribly.

 

©2010 Felstead & Waddell

 

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