Dom wrote this the year he hanged himself. It was for The Brunner Prize . He won it but he killed himself before the judging, so he never knew... This may give you a sense of Dom. There's such a huge hole in our lives since... Little Victories When you are as hopeless as I am you have to treasure even the smallest of victories. Then you might surprise the hell out f yourself if a proper victory turns up shouting it triumph in your face. My favourite little victory, in true clichéd teenage fashion, involves a girl. And of course she’s mind-dazzlingly beautiful and smart enough to enrol in a world renowned university but that’s almost besides the point. Call it obsession but I’ve liked her since she sat next to me wearing a little jade necklace and the kind of smile you make sure you remember. That was years ago and, and to cut neatly between then and now, she has a boyfriend and nothing has happened between us. But there was a field party she hosted not too long ago.. I turned up late due to my lift having a job and then driving us to the wrong field. So after having missed about half the party we made lack lustre entrance that at best drew a few chuckles from the more intoxicated. There she was. Immediately my brain switched to awkward mode and had I not been sober I’m sure I would promptly begun making an ass of myself. Maybe it was the half burnt bonfire, or the general vibe of a good party in full swing, but whatever the reason I found myself making witty comments sparking a few laughs here and there. Now this girl has charm and charisma in spades and nonchalantly invited myself and another chap to go “on an adventure.” We were in the country, with a compact castle behind and fields and woods before us. I’d be lying if I said something naive and hopeful didn’t stir within me. Despite the mildly unwelcome addition of another male my wit held and I managed to amuse as we wended and wandered our way to a bench carved from a fallen log. A toast to youth and unchained flirtation, for we ended sprawled upon said bench telling stories. My favourite story tells of a monk and a fox who trade fatal dreams like a Shakespearian poison. I have told this fable many times and as I lay with my ear to her chest, I listened as her heartbeat pulsed and twisted with the turns of my tale, soaking up the memory else it flutter away like a feather in a dream. As like all dreams it had to end, we dodged the cow tracks back to the party, the fire and the sedate intoxication of those left behind. The other guests were flagging and tired, in all fairness they had had a full night. I doubt I need to spell out my elation, contained though it was behind a façade of ambivalence, and sleep was leagues from my mind. So maybe an hour passed, while those left standing peeled slowly away to their plastic tents and synthetic sleeping bags. I, being a million beats from sleep, soon stood next to the fire in the best company I could wish for. We were not alone, she and I, though we stood close breathing the same air, trading the kind of insights that only apply after two in the morning. It could have been chance, it could have been my imagination or more likely pure wishful thinking, but I swear there was a moment, even a split second, where she looked at my lips and might have wondered what it would have been like if she took just half a step closer… Like I said, just a little victory. But sometimes that’s all you’ll get. Dom Lucas