Short Story Published: “…in acceptance” in Litro Magazine

FeaturedShort Story Published: “…in acceptance” in Litro Magazine

My short story “…in acceptance” has been published by Litro, one of UK’s leading literary and creative arts magazines. This is what the Editor had to say about it:

‘…there are (literary) communications from beyond the grave in Richard Lee-Graham’s strange but touching (and playful) “…in acceptance.”’

The piece appears in issue #171, which can be purchased in the Litro Shop, or you can read the story online here, along with the other excellent writing available on Litro.co.uk.

I hope you like the story!

Rushed

Rushed

 

My heels clip on

London concrete.

My hamstrings strain

To increase my stride.

I slalom around

Pavement zombies,

Phone junkies,

Loitering monkeys.

 

Don’t they see?

I’m late for a meeting

With a client of grandeur.

A key player.

A major money man.

(I can’t drop the name

Due to a

Signed NDA).

 

It was suppose to be

A blue sky meeting

On a grey winters morning.

But I slept too long,

And the tube

Went wrong,

And now I’ve

Got the dreads.

 

If I’m late,

My rep will be tarnished.

I’ll never secure

Another meeting again.

Because in this town,

Time is a diamond

We can’t possess.

But we know it exists;

Out there on the outskirts,

Out there in the sticks.

 

It’s below freezing but I’m

Working a sweat;

A pavement cardio,

A sidewalk rodeo,

A street athletics show.

There’s no way I am going

To be on time.

It’s curtains for me;

I’ve sealed my P45.

 

Finally I arrive.

I collapse at the entrance,

My power-walk ending

In a muted reception.

I approach the desk.

‘Yes?’

Glared a future

X-factor entrant.

 

‘Good morning.

I’m here to see

The top brass.

The big cheese.

The head honcho.

I was delayed, but please,

Pass my humblest regrets,

I am spinning a lie

Which I hope he accepts.’

 

‘I’m sorry, sir,’

The young lady chewed.

‘The Great Man is away,

Tanning on a beach.

You’ll need to reschedule;

He returns in two weeks.’

 

Father’s Watch

 

My father’s watch,

I notice stopped.

His movement ceased

to turn the cogs,

that spin the gears,

which move the dials,

that give the promise

of a while.

 

The watch now mine,

but still it’s stopped.

It sits inside a precious box.

The frozen hands,

my father still,

his whispered breath,

his secrets kept.

Regret, regret.

 

One day ready

to wear that watch,

I’ll move the gears;

start time again.

In good knowing,

the hour I’m stood

will come to be;

eventually.