Terrible Voices — Cream with a K

sun snow blue board ice powder foam plastic cloud coat orange grey red thick thick puffy and thick keeps warm as pine breeze needles sting fleshy cheeks lips nose withered forehead soggy hair only eyes shielded by yellow plastic tear in bottom left scratches out blurry vision white into grey fluff cotton candy cotton wool cotton gloves tiny globes buzz past fingers curled on rubber rudders flimsy brittle matchstick poles guide flimsy brittle matchstick legs heart racing heart pounding heart bumping pumping thrumping tongue heavy thin air difficult to swallow teeth cracking wooden splints flimsy brittle matchstick pearls chattering chattering chattering

Jason flew off the edge of the cliff. His ski instructor had warned him against taking the Black slope this early – it had only been three months since Les Arcs after all – but he had insisted, and now here he was, flying through the sky with no parachute and just a pair of skis on his feet. It was poetic justice really; the sort of irony that Alanis Morisette would sing about. If his stomach wasn’t freefalling through his cavernous body, he probably would have laughed.

It took almost twenty seconds before he collided with the mountain beneath him. The intensity of the breeze that had stung his lips had increased to feel like tiny knives slicing his pink skin, he gulped for air with tiny fish lips blowing hollow bubbles, his heart was beating at a thousand beats per minute. The skis had stopped him capsizing in the air and so his feet were the first to make contact – the bone of his heel crunched and folded up into his shin, which burst out through his kneecap. The back of his skis were shattered instantly and shards of plastic-coated-wood pierced his buttocks. His tailbone thudded into the snow and the impact compressed every disc in his spine, severing the nerve endings and wiring his jaw shut. His body, limp and crushed, fell forwards and the momentum of his flight rolled him down the snowy gravel into a thick redwood pine tree. The front of his left ski was lodged in his cheek and his left eye socket was filled with blood. Snow fell from the pine tree and birds fluttered into the sky.

Seconds later he woke up and the memory of the pain caused him to scream in agony, it came out as a childish gargle. His head was wet and sticky. He smelt antiseptic, sweat and urine. A bright light blinded his eyes as they opened for the first time. A latex hand grabbed his ankles and he felt the familiar pull of gravity as he was lifted into the air – at least this time he was in a hospital.

ghost story by numbers

Ayelle — Actor

ten twelve trees blow in the wind

night crawls across the sky

Samuel’s hair was jostled by the breeze. It was October and the wind was punctuated by pin pricks of moisture that made his eyes sting. He had been walking through the field for almost an hour and was still yet to find the gate, even though he had followed the instructions to the letter; “Pass through the trees next to the river, walk for a mile with the bushes on your right, when you reach the third oak tree walk left into the field until you reach a silver gate.” He was starting to wonder if he was going mad.

It was only two days prior that he encountered the mysterious visitor who had shared these directions. His mum had gone to work early, as she did every Tuesday, and his dad had only got home an hour ago so was fast asleep in bed. Samuel was sat on the kitchen counter in his underwear, black china tiles carving red indents into the fleshy underside of his pale thighs, when there was a short rat-tat-tat on the front door. Assuming it to be either the newspaper boy, the milkman, or some other delivery typical of village England life, Samuel went to open the door.

He had opened it to find a tall man in a black track suit. Tall was not the correct word to describe him, as the crown of his balding head reached only Samuel’s chin, however his physical features were elongated so that he appeared long and thin. His arm was still held aloft at shoulder height, the bony knuckle curled into a pointed fist, fresh from rat-tat-tatting. When the man had seen Samuel stood on the doorstep, dressed in loose fitting boxers and a thin white vest, his lips had spiked into his gaunt cheeks in a smile. The small black pupils in his yellow eyes had briefly bulged and a pointy tongue moistened his lips.

Samuel struggled to remember how their conversation had gone. The man had started by claiming to need directions, playing the part of an out-of-towner who had got lost on the way to the church for a christening (had he said that? Samuel recalled a church ceremony but now he thought harder he didn’t ever remember the man using the word ‘christening’), before going on to bring up the story of Agatha.

The story of Agatha was a local ghost story. Legend had it that Agatha, a fierce young woman, had discovered her husband en flagrante with the reverend’s daughter. Consumed by vengeance she had sealed the room they were in and set fire to the house, before marching to the church and committing some unspeakable acts. Depending on who was telling the story, this ranged from vandalism of the church and its contents, to the seduction and murder of the reverend, but typically ended in the sudden death of Agatha within the church grounds, where her spirit still roamed to this day. The truth was, in fact, a run of the mill ‘woman scorned’ story, exaggerated by village gossip with just enough salacious details to make it familiar to locals as the story of Agatha. Rather than burn the adulterers alive, the real Agatha of 1782 had instead burned her husband’s wheat harvest, and during the following Sunday sermon she had publicly castigated the reverend for having raised a Godless wretch of a daughter, before taking her own life several weeks later. It was a testament to the lazy imagination and poor writing of the locals that this story was still told today.

The fact that his door guest had heard of the story, but did not know where to find the church, did not strike Samuel as odd straightaway. He’d obliged in local tradition by filling in the blanks in the narrative, adding his own teenage colour when describing Agatha’s revenge, then had given directions to the church, even stepping out of the porch to point out the nearby turning. The man had thanked him and seemed about to leave before turning back and fixing Samuel with a curious stare. His lips had once again curled into a pointed smile before he said:

“Do you want to know how your brother died?”

broom closet

Big Black — The Model

I want your money / That’s / What I want

The lobby was grand. Black columns decorated with gold leaf trim grew out of a white marble floor, my suitcase wheels made almost no noise, gliding along behind me as I approached the desk.

A short Asian woman greeted me. One of those rich places where the staff don’t smile. It’s more honest that way I guess.

“Good morning sir. Here to check in?”

“Yes, I have a reservation under Greene.”

“Just a moment please sir.”

She tapped some keys on her keyboard, the small black machine next to her whirred into life and a white keycard slid out.

“Have you stayed with us before sir?”

This suit I had on must be working. If she had seen me in my clothes from yesterday she wouldn’t have needed to ask that question.

“No, I have not.” I flashed a shark smile.

“Very well, you are in room 427. It is on the fourth floor, the elevator is just to your right,” she motioned to the black elevator doors behind one of the columns. “This is your keycard,” she tapped the white plastic card, her eyes were hazel and soft. “You will need to swipe it to use the elevator and then again to access your room. Please do not lose it as there is a fifteen dollar charge for replacements, which will be added to your bill at the end of your stay. Breakfast will be served in the restaurant” – another point, this time to the glass doors to the right of the reception desk – “between six and nine thirty tomorrow morning. The bar closes at eleven pm, however the front desk will be staffed all night should you require anything else.” She did not smile at me. She was being rude. It was sexy.

“Thank you” – a glance at her chest, small pert breasts framed in an oversized bra cup, red text on a white plastic gold framed name badge – “Elaine.” My eyes stayed on her chest and I felt my leer being returned with a blush. Women – so fucking predictable.


Fire — Dream Wife


Every Tuesday Alice changed her commute. She did this because she was worried that travelling the exact same journey everyday created a risk of identity fraud. She still threw away bank statements, credit card bills and payslips in the same recycling bag, but had decided that strange figures plotting her journey to work and home was the greater risk, and so every Tuesday she would change at Stockwell and hop on the Northern line. It added fifteen minutes to her journey time and even though every week she would arrive to the nine AM sales meeting out of breath and sweaty, she considered it time well spent. She had not yet considered the fact that this attempt to break routine had now become a routine, and as with all routines, after a few months she forgot why she was doing it at all.

On one of these Tuesdays a man was eating strawberries straight from the punnet in the seat next to her. He struggled to make his five-a-day recommended dietary requirement on the other six days of the week, and overcompensated by cramming a whopping ten portions of fruit into Tuesdays. His usual choice of morning-commute fruit – white grapes – was sold out in his local supermarket, and so he had panic purchased the strawberries. They were not in season, firm to chew and overly tart. As the train juddered to a halt at Oval he dropped one of the half eaten tips which bounced off his thigh and onto Alice’s. The juicy red flesh left a small thumbnail size blotch on her white jeans; the stain was not visible on his own black suit trousers.

Ordinarily this sort of event would not have riled Alice. She was clumsy and would often spend an afternoon with a blouse stained from that day’s lunch, or perhaps from even earlier in the day (she was a drink spiller, too); at a recent house party her friends had jokingly given her a glass of red wine served in a child’s plastic sippy cup, a joke they had all laughed at, but were then glad about when she accidentally kicked this across the cream carpet floor. Alice herself had shared the laughter and subsequent relief. No, on an ordinary day Alice would have let this slide – she would have accepted the apology with a ‘don’t worry about it’, or ‘these things happen’. However, today was not an ordinary day. Today was a Tuesday.

The man did not apologise, and instead delicately picked the strawberry tip off its resting place on Alice’s thigh. He was hopeful that the stain would go unnoticed until he got up and left the tube at Bank, off to spend a day committing worse deeds in his job as an assistant hedgefund portfolio manager, and he would forget about it as soon as he had thrown the empty punnet in a bin outside the station. His own designer suit was unscathed and he was every bit the stereotype of his job – he even had that grease-wax swept back hair typical of an eighties yuppie or comic book villain – so ruining the appearance of an inconsequential bit of skirt would not trouble him.

On Monday nights Alice listened to The Guilty Feminist podcast. She would do this in the kitchen, while cooking dinner for her boyfriend, through her female-voiced virtual assistant powered smart speaker. The irony was lost on her.

Dinner for Two

The Cure — Pitcures Of You

The kitchen was filled with the aroma of potatoes. The pan had boiled over and frothy glutinous water ran down its sides onto the hob, where it hissed and evaporated, leaving a brown teardrop burn mark. The cubes of potato jostled for space as the orange blue flame rolled underneath, bubbles formed and burst through the surface, they were nearly ready.

Jean sighed as she entered and saw the state of the kitchen. Alex was a sloppy cook, which had been endearing at first but lately had grown tiring, and she was irked at the prospect of cleaning up his mess. In addition to the overflowing potatoes were cardboard sleeves and plastic wrapping abandoned on worktops, and a large purple smear that had dropped onto the floor and then been stepped in. Alex was standing with his back to the overflowing pan and cooking detritus, hastily chopping vegetables. The knife THUMPED against the wooden chopping board with each slice. He cooked with the delicacy of a boxing glove.

“Do you need me to do anything?”

She bartered the usual platitude knowing what his response would be. He called it backseat cooking, she called it damage control.

“No, go and sit down babe, it’s almost done.”

The tone in his voice conveyed more threat than he had intended, but it served its purpose and Jean returned to the living room.

Tonight was not a special occasion, but Alex insisted on cooking an expensive rump of lamb with mashed potatoes, roast broccoli and carrots. Jean’s portion would come dry whereas his would be lavished with redcurrant gravy that had come in a plastic sack, wrapped into a metal container that had contained the chunk of lamb. The fact it was metal meant that he had paid almost a third more than the plastic packaged meat, and almost double what it would have cost him at the local butcher, but he paid happily for the image of prestige.

After thoroughly slicing the carrots and broccoli, Alex threw them into a pan and drizzled them with olive oil, salt and pepper. These were hastily thrown into the oven. He did not check that the meat was cooking.

“Alexa, set a timer for twenty-five minutes.”

The black tube that housed their voice assistant briefly muted the audio that was playing – Robert Smith’s dulcet tones were not missed – and announced a timer was set for twenty five minutes. Alex washed his hands, went to the fridge and poured himself a glass of white wine. Yes, red wine was traditional with red meat, but it gave him heartburn and there were no snooty waiting staff here to judge his choice. He left the potatoes boiling, also without checking, and went to join Jean in the living room.

Dinner for One

Sleater Kinney — No Cities To Love

The fish was cooked to perfection. Large chunks of soft flesh fell apart on my fork, salty capers and silky smooth vermouth soaking through the fillet resting atop a seabed of tender greens. I raised the fork and admired it for a split second, wondering the lengths the chef had gone to, the miles the fish had travelled from the coast, the effort of the fishermen on this fine catch; I put it in my mouth. No need to chew it was so tender. The flavours slid over my tongue and around my teeth and lips and gums and down my throat. Exquisite.

I was having dinner alone in The Coq d’Argent, awaiting for my next target to be sent through. I didn’t usually treat myself to any downtime, let alone in such an opulent setting, but it was my birthday. My table was on the terrace and the sun had just dipped below the skyscrapers of the city, the diaspora of shapes and sizes of the buildings and the shadows they cast briefly reminded me of a cemetery. I probably think about death too much.

The skyline was visible through the leaves of honeysuckle, (or some other wall-crawling garden plant) and the shrubbery framed the glass and concrete of the city in a border of lazy contrast. The terrace contained roughly twenty small tables and was peppered with pot plants that varied from orchids to fir trees to topiary, complete with a babbling brook that ran like a moat on the outskirts atop a redbrick wall. It was jarring, like eating dinner in a garden centre, and I did not care for the half-hearted attempt to distract from the urbanity of London.

I was not the only solitary diner in this terrace and I felt a strange kinship to my companion. She was wearing a white dress with a high neckline and an oval slit across her breasts; sleeveless and plain, it looked to be made of silk or a similarly luxurious material. Her skin was a deep tan, her arms were lithe and her figure was slender but firm. A long, thin neck grew out of her dress but was halted by a sharp jawline and pointed chin. Her face was beautiful, full red lips, deep cheekbones, fluttering eyelashes, but her hair fell unnaturally over the left side of her face and obscured one of her azure blue eyes. I would later discover she brushed it this way to hide the scarring down her left cheek and mask her missing ear. She did not look old but she did not appear young, her face showed signs of worldliness only afforded to a woman of a certain age but I could not tell you what age that was. She was wearing a modicum of make-up – black mascara and black eyeliner was all she needed – and her hair flowed freely around her shoulders. Save for the strands that draped diagonally across her brow it did not look like it had been brushed. This relative lack of care for her appearance was in contrast to every other diner in this restaurant and heightened her air of worldliness. Worldliness is the wrong word, in fact. Confidence is better.

Office life

St. Vincent — New York


She had suffered from impostor syndrome from day one in that job. It was the way her interviewer had looked at her – she recognised the repressed leer, the frequent glances down to her cleavage and resultant guilty and uncomfortable eye contact. Even on the way out of that small glass room she had felt the eyes travel down her body to look at her bum, and she had turned with a smile and offered a firm handshake in return. A few days later she received an email from her recruiter, Nancy, with an offer. A few days after that she’d called her Nancy to discuss some contractual clauses and had found her brusque and cold, formal and unfriendly, and did not speak to her again.

Alice held onto the handrail of the escalator on her way up. When she reached the top she took a small bottle of hand-sanitiser out of her bag and squeezed a small blob onto her palm, replaced the bottle and rubbed her hands together. They made a squelching sound and smelt of alcohol. She got nervous on each pitch but this time her stomach was tight as she mentally recited the opening lines to her presentation; this was the largest group yet and, since Will was attending, it also included the most senior figure she’d ever had to present to. Introductions – year-to-date results – successes – learnings. She repeated the headings to herself. That memory of Will interviewing her kept popping into her mind.

Her first day had gone similarly to her last phone call with Nancy. She had worn a turtle neck jumper and smart trousers, applied light make-up and scraped her hair back into a bun. Plain Jane. The front desk had greeted her warmly and asked her to take a seat on the brown leather sofa normally reserved for clients. There was a small porcelain bowl of mints on the glass counter and Alice had knocked it with her bag when she turned to take a seat, sending the white minty pebbles all over the receptionist’s desk. She spent the first five minutes glancing upwards and smiling apologetically, the next five worrying about her breath but too embarrassed to take a mint, and the last five growing impatient. She eventually spotted Will descending the escalators behind the counter and prepared to get up.

Alice couldn’t shake those memories as she walked across the tiled floor to the conference room. Her heeled shoes clicked loudly on the ceramic and the security guard on break in the kitchen area turned to find the source of the noise. The office was open plan, everything was white and modern, and the escalators opened into a central foyer with a kitchen area at each end like poles of a compass. Her end, North, had a breakfast bar with several high-legged metal chairs and a Nespresso coffee machine; the Southern end had shorter tables and microwaves. Each kitchen overlooked floor to ceiling glass walls that overlooked the atrium, though here on the first floor there wasn’t a great deal to see, and in addition to the high or low-legged seats were leather armchairs and a small chesterfield sofa in both kitchens. Breakout workspaces is how they were referred to; unused and expensive is how Alice thought of them.

The sofas gathering dust in each kitchen were the same as that brown leather one she had waited patiently on several years earlier and provoked another flashback. After fifteen minutes sat on it, Will had approached reception and she had swallowed her nerves and doubts and scrunched her face into a broad, beaming smile, and started to stand to greet him – when he walked right up to the desk and asked where Alice Bowman was. The receptionist pointed at her with a frown. She wouldn’t forget the look of surprise and disappointment on Will’s face when he saw her – no skirt, no red lipstick and no cleavage on show – and that had set the tone for the next eighteen months of work. She was underqualified for her role, something her colleagues pounced on, and she had spent months learning the basic skills she should have had from day one. She needed help with every little task, whether it was creating a pivot table in Excel or uploading contracts to the legal approval tool, and her colleagues either helped her with condescending indifference or took over her tasks for themselves out of frustration. When it came to her first client meeting she had panicked and reverted to her interview attire of figure-hugging skirt and lavish make-up, and flirted her way through a lacklustre powerpoint deck replete with incorrect statistics and non-guideline branding and, although she renewed the client subscription, her male colleagues thereafter looked at her with familiar hunger in their eyes; worse, the small group of women she was close to befriending, pulled up the drawbridge and froze the moat around their castle clique.

Today was a Thursday. Alice hated Thursdays more than any other day as on Thursdays her most loathed meeting of the week took place, the weekly conference call with the New York team. This meant she would be working until at least eight PM and would be unable to eat dinner until gone nine due to the ban on food at desks, but this was not why she hated the call. No, she hated it because the members of the New York team were even less forgiving than her unwelcoming British co-workers. Every Wednesday night she’d get that familiar sense of unease just thinking about their brash questions, the pixelated stares from the seventy-two inch television in conference room two-ten-A, that same unease she’d had before P.E. lessons when on her period as a teenager.

She was less than three metres away from the door to the same conference room, panicking about the biggest presentation of her fledgling career, when she saw the sticker out of the corner of her eye. So small she almost walked past it, on the glass wall of the flexi-room adjacent to her destination, a small round white sticker. She cocked her head for a closer look but didn’t stop walking immediately.

A thick black circle ran along the inside border – adorned on its outer ridge were several small black semi-circles. Inside this was a red balloon.

Bourne Café (2002)

Close to Paradise — Soulwax

It was one of those European cafes, four red plastic chairs around a faux marble table top supported by a single plastic black leg, huddled tightly together under a thin orange awning that had been faded by the sun. The terrace was raised on a wooden deck but it did little to mask the sound of passing traffic and the customers ate their sandwiches oblivious to the exhaust fumes from passing cars. I nodded at the waitress – young, thin, pale skin – and took a seat in the corner nearest the entrance as she finished tending to a table of two parents and two children.

There was an old man sat on the table next to me who briefly looked up as I passed before settling into his pink newspaper; Le Monde. He had a pack of cigarettes on the table and the ash tray was already home to several butts, and I watched his hand reach out for the pack, flick open the lid and remove one, all without looking up from the article he was reading. He placed the orange tip between his lips and reached for his shirt breast pocket, taking out a small silver lighter plainly designed with some green water markings on the corners, lit the cigarette and replaced the lighter, not once looking up from his newspaper. I couldn’t see his face.

My interest was interrupted when the waitress came and asked if I needed a menu or if I was just here for a drink. Her German was not good, she had a thick accent – possibly Polish – and I felt strangely sympathetic for her. Her hair was scraped back but unwashed, her skin was pale and she had a small rash of acne across her forehead, her lips looked dry and cracked and she had purple rings under her eyes. She was not getting enough sleep and she had the onset of a cold. Despite her rundown appearance her uniform was immaculate; black pencil skirt wrapped tightly around her thighs and decorated with a thin brown leather belt at her waist, a crisp white shirt tucked in and ironed thoroughly, sleeves rolled down to her cuffs and a firm collar buttoned at the neck. She had grown up in a stern environment where the maintenance of uniform was paramount – an overseas boarding school most probably, the absence of a crucifix around her neck ruled out a Polish convent and she was too young to have joined the military – but clearly now was struggling to adjust to living independently. Her tiredness and unwashed hair suggested she lived in shared accommodation and the cold was surely a symptom of reluctance to pay a heating bill in autumn.

I ordered a black coffee and asked for the menu. She nodded and as she went inside to prepare it she swapped out my neighbour’s ashtray for a fresh one, he did not notice. It was an impressive sleight of hand and I wondered if she would make a good addition to the small crew I was gathering. Her fastidiousness would lend some order to the unruly gang of street performers I had so far amassed, and adding a girl would no doubt keep some of the younger boys entertained. I decided to wait until she had brought my coffee. If it was good, I’d set up a little test for her to join the gang; if it was bad then I’d drink up, leave a generous tip so she could buy some cold medicine, and let her continue living a mediocre life.

the speech maker

Craig Finn — God in Chicago

“I liked your last sentence out of all of the other sentences you said the best.”

“I always save the best to last.”

“I could tell.”

Arthur smiled. His face was red and his skin was stretched taught across his brow, deep creases reflecting his worries. He felt like this after every speech – was he losing them? Did they cheer louder last time or this time or have they not cheered as loud as the first time in a long time? He ran a hand through his hair separating the thick brown strands into a mess.

“Cephas, can you make me a G&T?”

“Of course, of course,” she replied and hurried over to the drinks counter encased in a large antique globe. “Ice and lime?”


Arthur took his weary limbs to the wine-red velvet armchair opposite the fireplace and sunk down into the cushions. It had been over six months since The Balloon had visited his home on that rainy afternoon and changed his life forever, bit his body had aged as if it had been six years. His hands were crinkled and beginning to show liver spots, his face had grown gaunt, his hairline was receding with renewed vigour and his waistband had shrunk faster than his wardrobe could keep up making his clothes hang loosely which accentuated his pointed frame. The toll was not just physical and his mind these days was preoccupied with thoughts of coups and bureaucracy, the sharp-toothed confidence of his younger days fading in the rearview mirror.

Cephas watched him as she scooped ice into a tall crystal glass. She could see the stress that was growing like a thunderstorm behind the whites of his eyes, she knew that it was not long to go until he reached breaking point. A smile flashed briefly across her thick lips.

“Make it a strong one would you?” came a plain demand from Arthur, head now in his hands.

“Of course.”

She splashed a healthy glug of gin into the glass, watching it trickle down over the chunks of ice. The scents of juniper and peppercorns were quickly masked by the odour of ethanol. Cephas took the silver metal tongs from the globe bar and lifted a thin wedge of lime from a white dish, placing it delicately on top of the ice. She then reached below the globe to the mahogany cabinet it was sat on, opening the cabinet door to reveal a small fridge containing twelve cans of tonic water. Cr-tssssh. The liquid fizzed over the ice and lime and bubbles erupted to the surface escaping the glass leaving a hazy moisture on the back of Cephas’s thumb.

The ice and glass clinked together as she carried it over to Arthur, whose eyes were beginning to glaze over out of either exhaustion or contemplation. Cephas wished this was the figure that the outsiders could see. The children in her village had grown up with stories of the White Cliffs, the collapse of the Balloon, the battle of Ngong Ping, the infamous Arthur and his feral clan. Whispered rumours and hushed tales disseminated by a frightened populace had allowed the Arturians to sweep through the land whilst rarely requiring them to resort to bloodyshed. In her ever lengthening tenure as Arthur’s maid, Cephas had never, in fact, seen him raise a gun, a sword, nor a fist against another man or woman. She was not naïve enough to assume the same could be said for his high ranking officials, and her clandestine corridor conversations with maids assigned to the lower ranks had informed her of their masters’ depravity, however she could vouch that their leader had never expressed an interest in such carnal violence. It was as if the years of barbarism had rendered him civilized and, seeing him here staring sadly into the flames of the fire with his thinning hair and gaunt face, he was surely a different man to the villainous figure of the village folklore. She longed to throw open the curtains, run on stage during the magic show and reveal the trick, shout to the people that they had forged their own yoke, they were willingly subjugating to this impostor –

Arthur thrust out his hand to receive the drink from Cephas and scattered her thoughts.


Our Love — Sharon Van Etten

the women stood outside discussing who would be married first their sequins shone in the rain the smoke from their cigarettes filled the small courtyard luckily there was no ceiling glass or otherwise so it drifted upwards like a smoke signal thin at the end fat at the top puffing wide into a cloud a small estuary into the river of smog that hangs above london below the planes below the clouds still above the trees but only just its slowly pushing down the hydraulic press of pollution punctuated by pockets of breath over the parks and the wide open expanses but held together by the veins of the toxic bayou a moth eaten ozone layer like the jacket i had worn camel brown mohair or wool it has hot cross buttons dangling off thread hoops six or eight in total it is double breasted extra stylish extra large extra warm with deep pockets like its former owner handing it down early i struggle to fill the wide shoulders but my feet were always bigger than his