Will Vigar

A Writer of Sorts

Unhinged

There was a time when a small shack, – unused in decades- stood here, shaking under a barrage of wind and hail;   door barely hanging on by it’s friable … Continue reading

Featured · Leave a comment

Dais

The wrong shoes impede my ascent and I struggle-slip through grass and gorse.   The keen thorned shrubs tug on too thin clothes and claw at barely waxed haversack   … Continue reading

December 10, 2017 · Leave a comment

ursus maritimus

Her head low and eyes fixed on mine. Loping from floe   to sea to dolerite schist; crackling on the lime rich shore;   following stale musk. Per shakes my … Continue reading

December 9, 2017 · Leave a comment

three

i have walked for nearly thirty miles and yet lack the courage to pass through the sap sticky firs and on to other soil   there is no mark no … Continue reading

December 3, 2017 · Leave a comment

Goodbye Sean

That day, a would-be princess dressed in jaundiced rags, roaring with tropical anger, masked the sound of the telephone ringing.   Samuel Beckett’s voice-mail, all blink-light urgent, and with increasing … Continue reading

October 16, 2017 · Leave a comment

Rockall Sketches

1. Storm flirting kittywakes plummet as waves dance a reckless saltarello around the bluff islet. Luttering brine and summer squalls engulf. 2. Hasslewood hides – tooth rotten in the gum. … Continue reading

September 15, 2017 · Leave a comment

Lullaby

The frenetic signal lost from Luxembourg at 0045 hours nightly, gave me time to retune the transistor to the long wave, ghost whining of empty air.   White mono earphone … Continue reading

September 5, 2017 · Leave a comment

Laithe

The far barn was off limits; a mantra drummed into us from the day we moved in. No access to be had beyond   the rotting stiles and snow weathered … Continue reading

August 28, 2017 · Leave a comment

Hotel. Birmingham 19.8.17 (03:17am: I Am Insomnia’s Bitch)

Sitting by the threadbare curtains, looking over the illuminated building works, from the fourth floor, waiting for something interesting to happen. Birmingham sleeps,   but a drunken Mancunian does not. … Continue reading

August 19, 2017 · Leave a comment

Hotel. Birmingham. 18.8.17. (The Treachery of Mirrors)

The first non-Kelvin based writing I’ve done in about seven months.   Be gentle, I;m still not awake.   Hotel. Birmingham. 18.8.17. (The Treachery of Mirrors)   It’s 6:15 and … Continue reading

August 18, 2017 · Leave a comment