Vlad. Poor Vlad. He doesn’t understand English. Doesn’t understand the country, the strange place he’s somehow ended up. Vlad fizzes. He’s got so much inside him and it won’t all come out. Won’t come out smooth anyway. He has to bite it off. To spit it out in so many words, so drowned in ums and ahs, like kittens spilling from a cement mixer.
“Vlad” and “Your Fire”, two of my very short prose pieces, appear online at Kitchen. Both are, more or less, about an enthusiastic and eccentric man I met while studying at Staffordshire University in Stoke-on-Trent.