Peter Thorn

Dirty Letters

Dirty Letters By David Tyrer The letterbox vomited an excrescence of dirty white paper onto the mud-clotted doormat of Arthur’s freezing cottage. When the last fillet of bad news had fallen, it snapped back into place on a muted low note. The disturbance tore him rudely out of his dreams and into rough, sweaty bedsheets. Next to him, his raddled wife dreamed on selfishly. He could smell the cold morning air seeping through their half-open window. Bad news. Arthur knew it could hardly be anything else.