Every year, this day, this bench, since his passing. He’d loved feeding the birds. She’d always been a bit scared of them, especially the big ones. Neck arched down, he turned back to the water. Perhaps next year she’d look into his eyes and let him take her home.
I wrote this story as part of a contest to commemorate Iain Banks, following his sad passing in 2013. Walking On The Bridge (PDF, 270k) Banks was — and remains — one of my favourite authors; I had just started writing fiction semi-seriously. I had to enter. The brief was to take one of the […]