The Last Days of the Cross

Part 4 of 6 by Joseph Ridgwell

I wiped the wet patch on my tee-shirt and hid the bottle behind my back in a desperate attempt not to look like a total alki. Why I bothered I’m not sure because the aboriginal girl was totally out of it. She was stumbling towards me, offering herself to almost anyone as she went. She had on the yellow blouse and the white plastic pearl necklace. We were almost in front of each other. She looked fucked, swayed, swirled, opened those wonderful blues eyes, and my heart burst into a million smaller hearts, which exploded on the floor in front of her like a multitude of orgasmic rose petals scattered on a long forgotten Damascus street one sad lonely morning eight hundred years ago.


Joseph Ridgwell grew up in the East End of London and left school with few qualifications. He then embarked on a succession of menial jobs. After being stabbed in a bar brawl and getting robbed at knifepoint he decided it was time to leave the country and promptly travelled the world. He returned to London in 2001 where he lives and writes to this day. The Last Days of the Cross is excerpted from his latest novel. Look for Part 5 on Monday, April 16th.

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