Dark Dead Days (short story)
He thinks of the three red lights. Round, in a neat vertical line on the mast as if they’ve been put there as part of a game. They glower in the night like planets. For all their significance, he wasn’t actually sure what they were, what the mast was for exactly. Radio? Electricity? For him it was just a marker - a sort of welcome that guided the way. It always meant the end of a long journey, it meant they were nearly home. What did home mean to him now..? He hadn’t been back up for ages - a Christmas about 12 years ago. He’d lived in the city for almost 20 and could finally afford to buy his own little flat - around the corner from the cobbled street with the bakeries and the coffee shops and the Saturday market. Where you lived was surely home. But he often found himself referring to it just as the flat . ( I’ve left it in the flat; let’s go back to the flat ). At least he could say mine . Is there always some sort of pull to the place you came from - an umbilic...
