A short story to mark St Dwynwen’s day, the 25th of January. With chickens.<br><br>Marc returns home from London to his isolated Welsh cottage for good, having found his ex boyfriend shagging someone else in their bed. Who’s the thin, freezing cold man with the bruised face he finds in his barn? Will the tenuous connection between them grow, or fade away?

Playing Chicken

Marc could feel the fine connection there, a tiny golden thread running between them.


“Thanks, Marc,” Mal said. “Thank you.”


“You’re welcome,” Marc said. “You’re very welcome.”Saint


DOWNSTAIRS, DAI WASmaking another pot of tea and ransacking the kitchen in search of biscuits. 


“They’re in the car,” Marc told him. “Help me unload whilst that brews and you can have some.”


“Fair enough,” Dai said. “Now, tell me how you’re doing.”


Marc went over it all again. It was starting to feel distant now. Coming off shift early. Finding David doing the horizontal tango with Jack Rivens from the next flat. The screaming row. David giving him his marching orders and then flouncing out. Wandering around in a daze for three days whilst he packed everything up. Loading the car. Arriving last night and collapsing into bed.


He’d told it all a couple of times before. Once to Ruth at work, when he turned down the shifts she offered him yesterday morning. And to Mal. 


Chapter 9