Daniel Guy's Blog

by Daniel Guy. Cathy walks along the grassy path up through the wood, a mile from her cottage, and enjoys the shafts of early evening sunshine on her face.   The narrow path leads upwards till it reaches a clearing in the trees. There she pauses as she always does, to look out across a lush green valley. There she listens out for chirruping of birds.   Then she looks around to check that no one is approaching before reaching into her pocket and fetching out a two tightly folded clear plastic bags. She kneels down, lifts a flat white stone lying in the grass beside the pathway and lays the bags beneath it. She fetches out a dog biscuit from another pocket, crushes it in her hand, sprinkles the crumbs over the bags and then replaces the stone.   Having brushed the dust from her hands, she walks a few yards up from the path, sits on the trunk of a fallen tree, and waits.   To while away the time, she smokes a joint, and watches, where the tiny path ambles off down the slope.

by Daniel Guy Ross, a thin, grey male of fifty-two, divorced ten years, has been in a daze all week.   He’s been taking trips down to the local supermarket every other day, for there’s a checkout girl he’s clocked, young and pretty, dark black hair and deep brown eyes and long red painted fingernails.   But it’s her breasts that attract him most. He’s become a bit obsessed. He noticed them some weeks ago and from that moment on he has felt an overwhelming need to see them more.   So now he picks her line to queue at, just so he can look. Despite being hidden safe away inside a tight pink uniform, their shape, their perfect curves are no less enticing, and her cleavage, always low, means men like Ross can half see them, silky white, cupped, exquisite.   Ross believes they have magnetic powers, because they seem to fix his gaze, they give out so much electricity that for a moment he stops thinking about everything else and all those miserable things he worries about every day, e