The Press Row Had a Candle

Press row sits at the edge of the court, close enough to feel the draught when someone drives the lane. That night, close enough to smell the nerves.

When the arena went black, forty photographers lowered their cameras at once. I turned on my phone torch and kept writing.

Years later someone sent me a video of that night. It is thirty seconds of black, with a crowd and a pen scratching. That is the sound of my notebook.

Fictional sample content.