by Tim Woodall
I had a candle in my room and she would sit and mold the wax into strange shapes. All kinds of clichés aside, I’m fairly sure it burned out a week after the ice finally splintered beneath us. A year later I wrote a story about us lying in bed on Bonfire Night, while fireworks hung like constellations outside the window. It was published, but then she started cropping up in other stories, with a different name or hair color and, although it happens less now, sometimes I feel guilty. One of these days she’ll realize all this and sue me. And I won’t have a leg to stand on.
Tim Woodall, from Chorlton, Manchester, is a tad Maladjusted.