This article is taken from Stand 237, 21(1) April - June 2023.

Andrew Peters End of the Season
There was a penguin suit that stank like a farm, with rubberized feet and a saggy rear that was a humiliation. Sam had to wear it because he was the new boy. When business was slow, Mr Harrington politely insisted.

Harrington standing at the mouth of the arcade, chatting with passing acquaintances. Occasionally he looked at Sam and flapped his arms, showing how to be a friendly bird.

The black felt of the tail, spotted with cigarette burns. There was a mesh under the beak, Sam saw the muffled world squarely circumscribed, a veil of grey and feeble hints of beach and sea and the wheeling chevrons of the gulls.  

When Harrington was gone, Sam let the rubber feet scrape the pavement. Over the smell of the suit there was the ferment of the litter-bins, chipper grease, the sharper cut of brine. The decks of the old pleasure cruiser were full. It went across the bay and back again, the passengers waving at the beach. The static of the bingo callers. EYES DOWN LADIES AND GENTLEMEN PLEASE HERE WE GO HERE WE GO IN YOUR OWN GOOD TIME SIR THANK YOU KINDLY.

A kid hugged his leg, treading on his foot. He barely heard someone say it was the hottest summer for ten years.   

He ate lunch in the back room. There was Pig Sheridan and Noel, who ran the games machines. Pig Sheridan was nearly forty. Noel was his cousin. They had the same nose. There was, ...
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