At 4 AM, A Shop Window

By A. M. Vivian

This collection is full of outsiders wishing for more from their monotonous lives but unable to grab the opportunities that present themselves. Instead, they find temporary solutions in devilish temptations, illusions of control, and disappointing romantic connections. We have Barry the battery hen contemplating his past-life choices, a mother who sold her son and discovers his body floating in the Thames, a humorous first date with a sinister twist, and a provocative exploration of love within an abusive relationship.

 

These stories and poems offer an amazingly raw, poignant, and powerful look in the mirror. It will appeal to readers who are drawn to the darker side of life and the uncomfortable emotions that polite people don't talk about.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Walter's Writing Emporium
• Release date: Aug 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781916216877

Book preview

British English is used throughout this book. Please note that some spelling, grammar, and word usage will vary from US English.

Trigger warnings are available at amvivian.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relation to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written consent of the author, except for a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

At 4 AM, A Shop Window by A Head

Copyright © 2023 A Head

ISBN: 978-1-9162168-6-0

Cover designer: MR RR Designs

Published by Walter’s Writing Emporium

www.walterswritingemporium.com

For all the 4 AMs I have seen. You’re a beautifully odd time of day.

Thank you to my ancestors for giving me the courage & the perfect amount of weirdness needed to create imaginary people.

My Friends

Generation gone,

hidden under the carpet

with the cigarette butts.

Contending with disorientation

living day to day.

Practising with the weekends,

paying with the week.

We say we have no choice

and the world is shit.

Searching for a meaning, a future,

a life worth buying.

We talk about politics and what we’d do

if we get there

which we won’t

and so we take drugs

to pass endless Mondays.

Amuse-Bouche

‘Maybe we have beginnings,’ he tells me over a pint in his local pub.

I’m hoping this is the beginning of something and that something is a wedding, a child, a mortgage. He’d look really handsome in a suit if he’d let me crop his hair a bit and straighten out his teeth.

‘To beginnings,’ I say, holding up my wine glass for a toast.

He bashes it with his steel tankard.

‘To our connection. I saw your profile and I knew you’d understand me,’ he says. The wry smile on his face seems to mock his words. But men often do that—don’t they? I mean, say things that they don’t mean but do mean so you get all confused and blush despite not being sure why you’re blushing or what exactly you’re blushing at. I’m doing it now as I consider how sincere his words are. He hasn’t got into my pants yet so I’m thinking that these words might just be words.

He’s a little bit weird, was a little bit weird in his emails with all those photos of his dinner and tea and the talk about fat on lamb, but most men online are a little bit weird. At least he looks like his picture and, if I’m not mistaken, he’s wearing the same clothes: trucker cap, faded t-shirt with a place name on it—Montana. He hasn’t been; I did ask.

‘Have you met up with many other women?’ I ask, but not in a jealous way, no, I mean, what would I have to be jealous about? It’s just a first date.

He leans back in his seat. ‘Many.’ He chuckles into his beer, his moustache settling over the rim.

‘Me too,’ I say and sip my wine. I try to make my smile match his but it makes me feel like I’m taking the piss. I place my hand on the table, near enough for him to reach out and place his on top if he wants.

One of his hands has long nails that are starting to curl over, and on the other hand, which grips his pint, the nails are short, cut straight across—a proper man’s hand. I arch my fingers up so they look like a tarantula’s legs inching towards him. He doesn’t notice. I can’t tell if this date is going well or not.

‘Do you come here a lot?’ I ask.

He dips his head sideways, ear to ear. ‘A bit. I like watching and the ale is like honey and I am a bee.’ He laughs. ‘No, I am a hornet. A big, angry one … buzz buzz buzz.’ He thrusts his face at me. ‘Buzz.’ I jump and we laugh.

‘My dad used to be a beekeeper,’ I say. ‘He had a few hives and made his own honey.’

‘Fascinating.’ He raises both eyebrows at me.

‘What’s your family like?’

‘My family? What do you want to know about my family for? I told you, family has no meaning for me, women have no meaning for me.’ He uses the hand with the long nails to wipe beer from his moustache. ‘Except you, of course. That’s why I chose to meet you. You could be…’ He waves his hand in the air and a drop of beer splashes my cheek. I ignore it; he might be embarrassed if he knew. ‘You could be my Delilah, you could be my Eve. Do you know who those people