Short Story


The only blockage was his own lazy self. “Completely useless” – his own admission. No one to defend his actions and he could only get frustrated and drunk every time he attempted. Writers block he blamed it on. Something he had heard the professionals – you know the ones that always make the most money – would say when they come back from the brink of extinction only to slam in another brilliant book for the masses who use them for references to real life situations. “Sign posts for the pathetic…” he quipped once in a story. He wasn’t one of these famous authors – he was a casual dip-in-and-outta type dude. A guy who was nothing but a faceless youth pretending to be more and every encroaching year towards his twenty-fifth birthday seemed like a death toll. He was now forty-nine; the bell rang numerous times, and here he was, awaiting the moment when the hands would clap together to bring in the new year of another fruitless time spending on the keyboard of drudgery. He hated life. It was useless on him. He would say that the only real use he had was to win the lottery and to spend it all on stuff. “Keep the economy going on me alone”. And knowingly, it will all be gone. It had been this way before. His estate. Gone. Not a penny, cent or Krona of it left. Dead and buried was what he was looking forward to. “Cremated perhaps, or better still, just left on the side of the road for the animals to have a meal”. Always looking forward to that. Buried maybe, maybe even cremated, but nevertheless he was awaiting death. And each day clicked and clocked him onwards to that goal. The most easiest of goals to reach and to obtain. Little effort. In fact, none. He was living on the knife edge of being turfed out and sort to gain a humble little abode for himself, renting somewhere out of the city that he loathed. The city that gave noting back when he went looking back at the age of twenty. He pretended he had everything to gain from his experience in high school that told him he would write and be famous and succeed. Everyone thought so, or so he thought. They thought nothing of the sort. Nothing at all. It didn’t matter to them who was successful, just them themselves. Everyone mistook that. It was hidden then and there that no one even had an incline what he would do but some of his friends knew what they were going to do, and they had been succeeding in such enterprises since. He had been selfish collecting all of the estate he was given when his father died. Perhaps that was a misfortune rather than the fortune he had. He spent it on worthless things, and holidays and endless weeks of not doing anything until it was all gone – the house was first, followed closely by the entrails of the former father’s money that seemed more than he ever would’ve thought he would have in a bank account – and it was the last he ever saw such an amount. He outlived his money by decades. All the while he was breathing heavily from the pit of his guts in fragility and fear. He made no further attempts at the things he thought would be beneficial to his enduring life. And here he was, looking down the barrel of fifty and seeing nothing ahead but shared flats and no money. He earns money for the debts he accumulated and still does; the stock he bought to fill his cupboards, drawers and rooms. He travelled with a big van load, always unable to pay for a proper removing company, and straining his back in every move, he always dumped the things into the new room he was letting. And every time he cleaned up and sorted it out and felt good about his new surroundings, it was the clutter that he didn’t see. He looked for jobs in areas that he thought would be good to work in, but the descriptions of the jobs posted online were demoralising. And he couldn’t write a CV. Not only did he not know this particular program, or that kind of discipline, he felt sure most of the jobs were fudged and fraudulent. He pretended he could do any number one of them but he was never convincing enough. He was never enthralled enough, nor disciplined; that was the honest truth – but who looks at that within? What he thought of himself came from the spit of his spirited being that others knew instantly in situations. He managed to get a job that looked good enough, but the fact that he had to “face clients” churned in him like spoilt milk. He felt his presence in a corporate glass house was corrupting his own real source and direction – but he had no direction. He fought his own battles in his own way to enhance his own image; a troubled person to deal with, and the blame. The workforce was a thankless task enshrined within glass and concrete walls.

And at home… Cool and collected at times, he felt never at home. Never at home anywhere. Movement inhibited that. It was the home he sold that was the home he wanted in the first place, but for him back then it was getting out and looking around and seeing what’s there… and what’s there… and what’s over there that drove him further and further away from home. And looking online at Google street view as he started to do when he could not be home and when he felt homesick, rallied his chagrin. The garden was gone. Made way for other people’s house and things and pools and stuff. He was no longer welcomed for the very fact that it was not his home, and never will be again. He felt empty every time he visited – online. He eventually stopped going back but not in his head. He knew virtually nothing of himself and the way he was seen by others. He made the right moves and pulled the right faces, but he had never admitted his snobbiness, nor embrace his dislike of some of the people he called friends or even the shortsightedness of his own intelligence. He was beyond his own personal belief at times, that he was unrecognisable to himself. “I hate people”. And yet his mouth made him feel invincible – with out trying he would be the writer he wanted to be, or the actor everyone wanted to project themselves onto, or the singer the people would sing his songs at funerals, even the happier ones. He loved the essence of melancholia. It made him feel different. The house he had gave him the hideaway places for this melancholia to grow unfettered. His imagination joined him in loving relationships with pop stars and intellects. He groomed himself into believing his advance feeling of knowing more than one art was down to his appraisal of a good guy who was better than those he often saw on TV. He had his favourites and he imitated their style, with no substance. He discovered reading literature that provoked and prodded his way of looking at his sedentary life in big house small town. He out grew it from the depths of his mind, and the writing took off during math classes and biology where he would only scribble as much as he could in stories for his friends to read and see their names in his fantasy novella. His art was praised, and pornographic scenes went into parts. This was an extension from his previous life as a boarding school child for the one year at high school that he attended. He was brutally sad there. Tormented by older boys, a name given to him for a defect in his facial looks according to them all. And he had to fight to survive often, and his prose of of porn worked well. Copies were being sought after by older boy whose masturbatory needs were at the best met with magazines from local shops from their own home towns. In fact that is where he got the idea to write filth marketing. Stories in these magazines were dirty, extreme and very seductive. the fertile minds of many boys ventured into every woman’s bedroom via these pages. The young kitchen lady was his imaginative fantasy. “What is going on with me?” He discovered this in a dorm one night. It was rude, awakening, very dark and secretive. Sticky in the end. The others knew themselves this stickiness as they were holed up in their own deliberate personal tryst with imagination. Imagination was the key to success, and he produced articles related to the saucy details described in magazines that were scattered in hedgerows and strange tunnels. He made the reading palpable for his audience; his entire class. They would waiting impatiently for the next article to be written and then distributed throughout their nightly homework schedule in the classroom. They held out for the detailed inscription of the sexual perverse act they all wanted to perform, and his own highlights were theirs collectively. How can one person’s dreaming be other’s as well? Odd enough, but when he was in it, he was in charge of their thoughts. He made them think of his dirtiness and lust. He had them think of his women and their bits. He had them concentrate on his penis as he had performed the acts so explicitly with it. They witnessed as a gang wanking over him and the kitchen porter. They performed through him he thought as he was the most verily with his versions. They just could not get enough after having read everything else. It was basic. It was stupid. It was innocence being ignited to scorch the ground and for the growth of experience to happen. It happened all that long ago. He left there in a hurry as he was hurt physically as well as emotionally. He had enough of them spunking over his dreams and destroying his innocence. He wanted nothing more to do with them and their depravity, and he came home for the first time being away for a long time. He was relieved. He started back at his old school with friends no longer being friends. He had to start again with the same ingredients but a failed experiment. His story changed, more involving and slightly sexual. He was after all still virginal and had never known anything of other’s flesh. He had felt his own every night since the discovery of what his penis could do. This time the story was a novel, a length of literature that involved his fiends and his life in colour and love. He included love for the effect to cover up his affection for lust. His idol was years and deserts away. She kept herself there and thankfully never came an inch close to him. He felt no distance though as he honed his skills in on love, lust, loyalty and eventually laziness. He stocked up on books he never read, and the same record he kept listening to. He made his bedroom a shrine to his teenagedom. He became something more profoundly shallow, and dug in his spade to discover fools gold. He kept going back to the bank of intelligence, but never could understand that he was not having a penny of their currency until he actually worked for it. He became hidden from himself and endured the sex drive in all activity but actual sex. Posters filled the spaces on the wall, to hide the cracks of failures he was enduring, but prompted up hope by the hip young stars of the day. He had them with him in fantasy and health. He kept looking out and never in, and he hoarded every bit of garbage that was insignificant and useless. It was his life. And when he left for the last time, he took as much as he could with him, easily filling up the small bedrooms he was to occupy, cramming out relationships that could not aspire to his idol. He came from everything and took everything with him. He made it pile high when the draught of disillusionment snuck in the cracks. He made it his job to be occupied in less interesting data. He made things of barely any effort, and they got trashed eventually. He had everything, and nothing was the everything he had. “What’s going on with me?” He had little understanding. He thought he knew, and he ploughed on regardless and hopelessly, determined to quantify the next basic outcome. It came ahead though when he struggled to finally keep the things he had acquired. He was leaving droppings of things all the way, from place to place, from lover to lose. He had shed some and kept a vast amount left. He saw nothing coming for him and kept what there was that he had. He made excuse after excuse after lying enough. He was caught, grabbed by himself. He lost people he cared for, and ignored the ones who wanted him to understand they were there, but not as objects or keep-sakes. He kept them out. He piled it even higher. He made the pile and it stuck.

He’s back at work, forgetting what just happened in his life.

Short Story

Twelve Hours to Sunrise


Going back in a car, driving in the night stickiness. Slipping into a brew of dark, and gliding along your roads to nowhere in particular. I have a particular song playing as it slices my heart with a warm knife of longing. A gentle cut, deep and soothing. It kills me with kindness and remembrance. I remember the times I came back to my door, and opened it to a present memory, something I can only reminisce now. It opened many doors, all the same ones, as I walked in there through my memory. It has been a welcome home, as I leave the doors open wide for me to visit time and time again.

The song sings as it keeps me company through the roads and open hills in dark. I am not alone with your lights on in the far away house, in the farm that seems to let me know it is ok. The thoughts are welcomed here. You cry to be alive, and see the reasons to keep hold of these feelings to keep you company as well.

I drive at the earliest and almost impossible waking hour where my emotions are the strongest and most melancholic. I like this moment; I like this feeling. I won’t change it for a long time. And the memory will bring it back when I listen to this music years later and many roads over.

The sun never peeks. Not in this memory. It has not shown not because it can’t, but because I like it without it for now. For this moment. For this longevity, it hides and will stay hidden. It stays well hidden, although the sun will come and see the land I missed. Let it illuminate it behind me as a careful guide that will forever be present but not knowingly there. Let it’s rays seep into the dark coolness to warm the cold’s flames. The birds are sleeping, and remain there slumbering without any disturbance. The car makes no noise, nor has any remaining quality of its exhaust expelling into the air. It is not poisonous to my mind. It has just given me a sense of freedom. I will leave it by the road as I walk into my home. Through the open door. In this long faraway field where the light of the house welcomed me.

You can hear the tape turn over again and again, repeating the same songs I had purposely recorded to be repeatable. And the drive into the dark, is repeated purposefully.

Again and again in my head.

Short Story

I Should Kill For a Living

It’s like a bad taste that needs to be spat out. It needs a good mouthwash and an antiseptic or even poison to get the horrid taste out of my existence. But it prevails. It is a taste that I want to get rid of, but it is not so simple. These people – these bullies of other people, have infiltrated a sanctuary within me, and it has spread like a nasty virus all inside. I want them out!

I have had a shit week, let’s face it. Horrible people exist in this world for one reason only – to kill them. That’s all I can put it down to. How else can we deal with them? Aren’t they sent by God’s grace for us to know what killing can be like to enjoy? Hath he not granted us thus shitheads to kill with pleasure since they are obviously gunning for a gun in the face?

This prick at work, he was a persistent one. I had a feeling he was already too much when he came in and grabbed a sheet off me to view it, demanding that he had to get to know now what he was doing. He was employed the same as me – as a freelance technician – and his demure was overbearing, incessant and demanding. He was a big guy, with a facist haircut (despite the fact that he told me his girlfriend’s grandfather was a member of the Spanish fascist party during the second world war. I wasn’t too sure if he wasn’t admitting to me he was one as well. Franco would’ve loved his looks and strong personality). He had trouble then from the outset with me, as I answered back. I didn’t back down or be drawn into a very long day of obedience to a jerk I instantly disliked.

Standing back for a bit, I allowed him to be rogue and undisciplined until he was satisfied that he knew what he wanted to do. So I gently got the paper back and started writing as I had done before on the sheet the steps I was taking in order to ensure what was happening. He soon took a dislike to that.

“If you number them like that I get confused and I need to write on the sheet the number in order of the speakers.”

“But I need to write down the numbers of the microphones each one is using. Today has a lot of them, and I have been doing this yesterday.”

The Italian who was the only full-time employee in this situation was a dull fellow, with a Roman nose and a physical vibe that was between nonchalant and contempt. His spotted beard was traditionally youthful, and his complexions were mainly of a sour and spoilt look. He did not intervene nor was he intending to support either until he was quizzed by the irate Spaniard if this was acceptable (his view of the situation). The Italian just shrugged his nonchalantness in the favour of the Spaniard, and Franco had felt he had accomplished something and outright winner and a victorious threat was even more presented to me. I was sitting and he was leaning.

The Italian thought he could make a compromise:
“You could get another rundown sheet from the organiser at the front desk.” I pounced on this suggestion for my benefit.

“Since I have been writing on this first, and I am taking charge of this, you can go and get the new sheet. It is only up the top of the stairs where you came in.” I felt relaxed and reassured that this could not be denied. It was then the fact that it was left to the dissatisfied Spaniard to go and seek a paper for himself as I was here for the event the day before, using the same paper to write my own instructions on. He wasn’t happy. He couldn’t dispute that fact. I knew that.

His heavy presence left with a cloud of anger, and I honestly felt angry myself. Not relieved. He came back a few minutes later, and started to write on the sheet his own instruction for his own benefit. He made no other comment, and the day started off quietly between us.

However, soon things did get heated by other events, and soon we were inundated with surgeons wanting their slides to be put on the laptops and then viewed, changed and swapped around. It became hectic and unruly. The Spaniard’s previous idea of us being all delegated to a task was out the window, and I found myself helping out more of his supposed duties than his of mine. During this bout of furious interference from all directions, it was “this is flipping the video! Can you change it?” And another one exaggerating “This is not what I want! The video isn’t playing! It is pathetic.”

During both of these final and demanding folks, I had managed to view both simultaneously and had solved the outstanding issues. The Spaniard to his credit had helped out with some of the media, but he was not about to help any more, and even with my friendly gesture of appreciating the assistance, his cool and ego stance signalled a proud force of magnitude to allow me to drown. The struggle to maintain credit on my behalf by portraying to the clients I knew how to fix their presentations was fading fast, as I started to flounder under the pressure.

But I had a winning streak, and finally concluded that the problems had been rectified. I wasn’t out for credit, but I wasn’t benefitting from a helpful crew.

Explaining the easiest of the two (the video isn’t playing!), I had explained that once played (and waited for them to start) it went well the second time you played it through. Some glitch, some gremlin, some rendering – – who knew? Not me, and I admired. However my senses felt that the Spaniard knew nothing either, but gleefully observed me flapping for an appropriate answer to the frustrated surgeon. The surgeon, American, bald and well groomed, had made an example of my dilemma:

“All I want is this to play. So you are saying we can play this? Will you give me your assurance?”

At that, I knew I would be caught out if I said yes. I don’t let them have it that easy.

Grinning I acknowledged his thought process: “That means I am saying it will work a hundred percent. No, I am not saying that. And I am not taking the full responsibility. It works now, but I would suggest we use your laptop on the lectern first, and then if yours fails during the presentation, we can then use the one on the system here.”

He nodded his approval of me notifying him of how far I am willing to take responsibility for the system, and was happy enough to use his own laptop. It was even time to test it on the lectern since there was a coffee break and he would be one of the next speakers.

Once that was said, I turned my attention on to the first presentation I was attempting to handle, and that the Spaniard had left it to me to deal with despite the room being free of all else except the bald American and the other expected client. I saw to it that the videos were fixed, and then saved it. Unfortunately, the first video still flipped as I had not seen this one, and yet all else was ok. The client, another American ( well groomed as well of course this being an auditorium full of specialists) looked a bit peeved, but would help himself by going back over the video and doing some rearranging himself. He had the sense that I was struggling with so much going on and he just wanted his done.

Once he had accomplished it, we all viewed it and sent it to the saved folder – the one the Spaniard wanted it to be in. But it was titled unfinished due to the rush of me having then attach small lapel microphones to more than five speakers.

The Spaniard, reigning supreme once again at his throne of the presentation palace, was instantly questioning where the file was that I had saved. I pointed it out. I had placed my finger on the screen, explaining that the title was incomplete and that he could update the file name now that he assumed command. His bewilderment was bewildering to me. I pointed it out again. He kept up some sort of “I don’t know where it is”.

Once I left him to it, I had made the final tie clip microphone placed on the bald gentleman whom was now at the podium, and hooking up his laptop. It didn’t work. He looked then foolish and grunted disapprovingly in disbelief, repeating:

“I swear it was working on my laptop before. I swear it was working!”

I knew best not to gloat, and I didn’t feel like it anyway. I was a bit sorry for him as he flustered on his laptop to try and get it to work. It finally did, and we both looked at each other, smiled and laughed at the stress the silly machine and presentation had caused. It was more of a relief than a sorry, but the bald man was apologetic. He was sincere and I was sincere in not even accepting it as it was nothing really.

It was nothing really.

But back in the small room to the side (the one they called the green room even though it was painted cream) the Spaniard was confused even more.

“Where did you save that file? Its not here! I don’t see it.”

And sure enough, as I went to the screen, I could not see it either. It was gone, between the two slides that I had noticed it was before. I was not upset, but felt like it was not me who needed to worry. It was him.

“I showed you where it was. I even pointed it out to you!”

The Spaniard then made the most heinous crime – he lied.

“ You never did! I can’t find it.” He got louder and exclaimed profusely his innocence and my supposed mistake.

His voice rose as he rose himself off the seat and held his arms out wide as if the very file will jump into them.

“I didn’t move it! I can’t find it! Where is it? You said you saved it!” He made the effort to confirm the fault was mine without being overly blameful. I breathed deeply, annoyed more than angry, but I could tell I was heading to the angry part of me where I could do anything – and with this guy, anything could be harmful. Harmful for either of us since he was bigger than me, but bullies are always less able to retaliate someone they actually bully turn the tables on them. My experiences in life has made many adjustments to my behaviour, and I remained (as I thought) calm and concise.

I repeated “I pointed it out to you! I wasn’t even near the laptop last.”

This was a direct shot back at him. His clumsy, piggy looking face showed signs of hostility as he backed even further away from any responsibility.

“You never did!”

“I didn’t even touch the computer! I was out there helping the guy get his laptop working!” And then I let him have it: “You were the last one to touch the laptop!”

He held his arms out wide again. What was this gesture for? Some sort of posturing it seemed to me. Instead of listening any more, I simply told them of my intentions.

“I’ll go and find the guy and ask him to come back.” And out I went.

The Italian stupefied as per usual was respectfully staying out of it. He had done nothing. Perhaps that was a problem more than anything, but at any rate I was pleased that he hadn’t backed the Spaniard up with any insinuating remark directed at me as I had an inkling he didn’t particularly like me after yesterday when I was being a little peeved off with his attitude to running around finding people who I had no idea who they looked like in order to mic them up. The Italian though was at least a bit more understanding, but nevertheless I had a suspicion he was not without blaming me for this incident. But I had proved them one thing – I wasn’t afraid to go out and get the guy back even when the session had started and I had to go in to the room quietly, dodge the cameras that were recording the whole event, and ask politely if he could return to the green-cream room for me to reinstall the presentation.

The American client seemed willing but a slight apprehensive about why it had gone missing, but I had ensured not to blame but to explain a mishap had happened and I was to deal with it. That assumption would have most probably lead the man to believe I was the culprit, but it equally meant that I was protecting the individual (the numbskull Spaniard) of wrong doing. In essence, I made myself look like a rescuer of the situation.

Once back at the room, the Spaniard had already leapt to his feet and greeted us outside the room, arms out wide again and irritatingly loud proclaiming that the situation had been resolved.

“It’s ok, we have found the file.” To me: “We were looking for you so you didn’t have to get this gentlemen, but you were gone. But we found it!”

His “we found it” signalled a resounding I found it proclamation. He smirked, and looked like he was blocking the man from entering the room. His intention was not that, as I could fathom, but at any rate I wanted to irritate the Spaniard more.

“Since I got you out of the room, would you like to see it to make sure?” I asked the client.

“Yes, that would be a good idea.” And he moved a bit forward. But the Spaniard held out his arms and this time was evident that he was blocking him.

“You don’t need to do that. All is ok. We found it.”

“I would like to see it.” He coolly stated. This was a surprise to me that the Spaniard tried to stop him from assessing the material. I felt hugely satisfied that he made a grave error in trying to stop this man. It was a certain thing now that the client had no doubt who made a mistake.

I felt rewarded by the Spaniard’s stupidity and overbearingness. At least someone else was witness to this guy’s aggressiveness and absurdity. The Italian was of no use. And even if he was, this guy was a specialist, a client and a respected peer, and the Spaniard blew it in front of me!

Victory lasts a very short time, especially when you are confronted by an over zealous individual. Egos can be the most enduring aspect of any situation – whether the owner of that ego sees the purpose of being confrontational. And he was.

As soon as the client left (satisfied nothing was wrong) the Spaniard wanted to confirm something to me in front of the Italian.

“Listen man,” be began as a sign of superiority in him calling me man. “I wasn’t blaming you for losing the file, but I hadn’t moved it…” His arms went out wide again, and he looked over his shoulder to the gormless Italian “And neither did you…so…” and he left it hanging.

That so was aimed at me of course.

I just looked up at him as I was sitting filling in my form dutifully and just listened to him to go on more. I waited for him to say something else, but all he did was look down with a shrug of shoulders and the final arm gestured my direction.

“I am not blaming you, but someone had moved it…” He made no effort to look in my direction, as his apparent dismay at me was all to prevalent.

I sat still and looked at him directly. He was still looking down at the laptop. He had finished apparently either blaming or apologising, but either one cause of action negated the other. He looked like a dumb shit with his head shaved around the sides and a waxed down longer crop on top. His black suit really spoke volumes to me of his blackness to be a gangster bully and his passive aggression was something to behold. He was a down and outright vile human being, and I despised him.

“Well, I don’t care who did what, at least it was sorted.” I said. My gown-up attitude would have made him even a little more belittled if I had my way, but I was doubting this attempt now. I doubted anything we did or say to this guy (the client included) would end up with him being apologetic or at the very least not being a brute about how he is innocent. As well documented, innocence is silent, guilty is a bellowed.

I turned my attention to the sheet, to the laptop – to anything else besides his ugly mug, but his bulk had filled more than his fair share of space in the room, and I was angry at the very essence of him being alive.

I felt not a victim but a crusader against the bullies of this world, and he was enemy number one. His Spanish ways had left me with a regret to not liking the country, and that was hugely unfair on my behalf. Country is a place, and this creature was displaced from it. He represented no one or nothing except himself, but he was far the worst bully I had experienced.

And then my phone rang. It set me off wildly in the head. Fucking Niall. The cock of all cocks. Niall the Shit. The agent who was supposed to get me work as a freelancer was in fact giving me grief. I couldn’t answer the call – didn’t he know I was at work? He booked me, the dumb fuck!

This was now getting on top of me regretfully. I already had a week of work that I was not suited to. And I knew the call was about the other day when I worked in a conference centre for a knob by the name of Hugo. He was another dumbfuck but one I could handle (or so I thought). He actually was hard to deal with his passive aggressiveness (something I am all too familiar with as I used this a lot in tactical defence – or so I thought, back when I was younger. I had dropped this attitude, but it was amazing to see how many men use it).

Hugo was a wanker. He had no clue how to manage, and yet his way of showing me what I needed to do was to add to the equipment needed continuously throughout the setup I was doing – a setup I wasn’t supposed to be doing. A setup that was meant to be have been done before I attended the conference as I was told (by Niall the Shit of all people), and that I would be only operating microphones and a few laptops. But this guy wanted me to build the whole setup by myself, adding and taking away equipment as I went.

So I had assumed I would hear about my attitude no doubt, and I left the phone ringing and did not answer. During this time, Spaniard had now remained silent and was watching his phone doing his social media browsing. He was getting his intelligence from other dumbfucked friends no doubt – the continuous saga of what-I-know-is-what-I-am-told-by-other-dumbfucks. News made by the bland and ill informed. The spread of contagious benevolence of an unintelligible army of likes.

I texted Niall the Shit back and told him I could not talk but asked what he wanted. He always texted unless urgent. His urgent though was not urgent but only for him. Niall the Shit for many reasons was a freaky looking, ego centric male who also liked to bully. His stature was not a big presence at all, rather than a little barking dog who was ridiculously unafraid of something bigger and more powerful than itself. But Niall the Shit was an idiot.

Niall the Shit responded his usual unresponsive way, not saying what he wanted but when he wanted to talk to me. After two. So be it. I will wait then to ring, and confirmed it so with a text back, but again added what the call was about. Of course as suspected, no response.

The rest of the morning was subdued, and I was pleasantly pleased to be reading a book. The Italian was most probably the most eager to stay alert to the surroundings as he was full-time and perhaps knew that if he slacked off he would get the sack or some sort of discipline actioned against him. Me on the other hand was content that I was to leave at the end of all of this, and I couldn’t wait.

Finally, Niall the Shit’s turn was to come and after a morning of helping, enhancing and being generally good natured, I mangled to get things done without consorting the Spaniard in any regard. I did my thing and he did his. Hardly we needed to speak, and yet he was a talker. He loved talking to the Italian. He never included me in any conversation, and why would I be included? His interests were dull and unimaginative. He didn’t read (he confessed) and he loved classic cars. He was an audio engineer like myself, and he had bragged during the morning of what he had done. When he heard that I was an engineer too he was surprised, and stunned to know I had no idea of some equipment he sprouted off in conversation. He was in constant competition but I made clear I wasn’t even good at engineering (which I wasn’t) and that I had no idea of equipment. I secretly had no intention of even being an engineer, but I engineered myself into this corner of the market. I had for a long time regretted it.

The Spaniard’s superiority was relentless. He was loud and intimidating. The Italian wasn’t intimidated and observing the two talk I concluded that the regional differences wasn’t that vast when it came to attitudes and culture. Latin was the main grounding of the two, and their individual bravado was evident in their digging at each other’s cities (Italiano was Roman, and the Spaniard’s was Milan). They had common ancestry it seemed and neither of them would be too far from the other when it came to attitudes. Both had there way of alpha male. Both had there own stride which was common. I certainly was left out of this.

Niall the Shit answered the phone in his usual unfriendly style. I just replied to his hello with a direct reflection of him. He paused (what for – for me to ask how was he doing?), and then launched into asking what happened the other day on the job with that Hugo guy. I gave my small detailed story without too much drama or information as I wanted to look like I had no intentions of being drawn into any pathetic-ness. Too late – I was talking to Niall the Shit.

“Michael, you are representing our agency…’” that was the most annoying phrase I have ever heard. I responded hostility back because I certainly always got it from Niall the Shit.

“I am paying you Niall for working there. I could have left early on, but I stayed. But I tell you, Hugo was not helpful at all. I always go to this place and end up doing something different to what I am originally asked to do..” I hadn’t stopped as it was Niall the Shit’s usual way to demand to be heard and demand to be in command of all conversations. He was overbearing, cruel and a hostile BULLY. Another one! I was fed up with them, and yet here they were – all of them in one time all around the city. I would kill them all.

Hugo, Niall the Shit, Spaniard, Italiano, woman on the desk, the doorman, all of the ones on the tube, the man who pushed the other day, the man who made a comment for me pushing to get on to the tube the other week, the ex girlfriends, the kids on their bikes wheeling it down the street, the clients who demanded they were right and I was wrong… in fact, the whole world!

The only ones I wouldn’t kill were the ones I loved, and they were few. My girlfriend was to be by my side as we would gun down the entire block, then blow up the whole borough followed by the city and the colleagues we hated. And I hated these people NOW.

I couldn’t go on with this talk with Niall the Shit. He was after all Niall the Shit. What can be said to Niall the Shit for him to back off, to get down from his high horse? Nothing! He is Niall the Shit.

Spaniard the dumbfuck, Italian the gormless, and all of the worse people who peopled this planet. All of them – I’M GONNA KILL YOU!

And I was left struggling to maintain some decent response to Niall the Shit at that moment as he told me off. A kid telling me off. A bully of a child who was at least half my age telling me off. What is wrong here? What did I get myself into? It was daft and pathetic. Niall the Shit should be dead as far as anything that really mattered to me was concerned. He did not belong in my world or in my sphere of recognition. It is bizarre what I had made for myself. Who I allow into my quarters and who is present in my presence. Somewhere I have to figure out that this all has to stop, and the only way was to kill them all off.

The call ended in some sort of thank-yous (why thank me?) and I was left gasping and hot. Niall the Shit had his way. He was victorious in this.

Going back in to the green-cream-shit room I felt a desire to smash the Spaniard’s head against the table, and crack his neck wide open. He was squirming at the sight of another client’s presentation (they were all surgeons) and this one was showing the opening of an abdomen. I wanted this to be the Spaniard’s guts exposed, and without anaesthetics. I wanted him to be on that tale in this video nasty to have his skin pulled back and all fat exposed. They would show in the video the dying screaming man and his penis pulled down with a large hook. No horror movie could describe accurately the pain they would perform on the Spaniard. The dumbfuck would be barely able to breath through all of the screams he would endure, and finally die. But them we wouldn’t stop. I would be there amongst these surgeons and take an instrument of gleaming steel to slice in and take away organs and tubes. Pulling more at the skin, up over his breast plate to then saw and crack open his chest cavity. Rib spreaders at the ready and a good old sawing off the scalp.

And all the while the Spaniard was sitting there unbeknownst to him how lucky an escape he was having. He wasn’t even aware I was looking at him. He was so self consumed with his squeamish child like behaviour. Grow up and die.

Finally the day came to a close. I was exhausted. The others were too, but did I care? No. I just wanted to go. After packing up what we had to pack up, I told the Italian only that I will get my bag from the room and if I didn’t see him before I left I had wished him a good day. Of course I didn’t mean it. I lied, but I had exhausted all desires as well as any sense of purpose to have them all killed.

To me though, the day was dead. It was killed and me along with it. I had been murdered by all and everyone. It all came back on me. They had got what I wanted – I was defeated and instead of seeing anyone else, I bolted. Left the premises, headed on down the road towards the cramped tube station which would end in me getting off, sweating and finally into my home.

I waited for my love to come home so as to be kept hold of tightly in a loving pair of arms and to wish the world away together.

She finally came to rescue me.

Short Story

Bright lights of night

The drive in the night investigated the inner beauty that was soon to be seen. He had some feelings that left him incapable of understanding. He had no ideas nor grasped the easiness of the feelings that were to plague him for years to come. He felt delighted to have them. Some how he felt special, despite the feelings being so impractical to his desires. He was sleeping awake. Snoozing in life what was supposed to be for others about staying awake. He snuggled in the nights air and the emptiness of his surroundings. The expanse of his existence was greater than the sum of all the awake and sleepers. The road curved and sleeked silently, weaving amongst the sleepers who spoke of nothing but getting through this wakeful life. Their only thoughts succumbed to the snooze button that beeped occasionally to wake them from the stupid slumber, but reset they hit for another time to wake. Maybe soon it will no more penetrate their slumber, and who would have thought that mattered? It never will again, and it never had before his drive into the forest of the subconscious. He sneaked unwittingly there and became part of the parade. It snoozed its way amongst the silent participants. They all stood at the side and spoke nothing of its arrival, and weakened cheered at its passing. It had an appearance of yesterday and the coming of two days ago. Never now, and not never tomorrow. It spoke of nothing new and something unfamiliar. The fumes from his exhaust bellowed a soft vapor the passing of time. How it was impenetrable this very heady existence. It was all in the casket. The bonnet and the crankshaft. How you can sum up the possible gears for it to go up or down a hill of existence. No existence had endurance, just a slumber of casualness and grace.

Never mind the changing of gears, for he taped his mouth amongst solitude of singing. Let it be heard he thought that his mind would be at ease from voices unheard of before or since. Quiet, disconcerting voices never spoken to public. And here he drove through the night of surprise and delight. He noticed the far off windows in darken houses on farmland. A spark of one light alone in the night of a far away place he will never see except from this spot.

How can you drive at this time of the night? What time is it? You never know as it is always dark, but light makes it darker. The light from the windows afar are just one in many thousands of miles apart they seem to take to reach each other’s windows. Farms of other places, other planets verge to make it a night of activity with sleep. Moon is better blown at this rate. It caresses darkens as to smooth the milkiness of the night into a welcoming sight. He followed dreams like this before now, and only now did he speak of them he followed. He ventured down allies, through driveways, upon hills and peaks, and past gates of wonderment and tiredness. He was awake though to his own surroundings and belonging. His car made purrs beyond the human ear. Eyes wept and tears formed a new beginning to past his time as he sang the songs that kept coming from the stereo. His own songs and creations and favoured artists he knew and loved who were all beginning to grate and sound dated. He dated them to be at least forty, the age he was only six years before. And they countered on him to remember them as much as they tried themselves to forget. They sang his history and their own. They forgave themselves many times over, as he obliged to not forget them. He listened for more radio frequencies of yesterday and two days before. Nothing new please. It was not what he had in mind or in soul to reencounter.

Managing a moment to himself, he heard fragrances that mattered to him. He smelt the souls of the backyards that encompassed his mind and passing. Trodden on before the flowers of his youth that became the compost of his present. How could this happen now? Where did this go, he wondered when upon the sight of a curved road did he witness an end to his travels.

The road stopped, and the car had a dead end.

He wanted nothing more except the radio off and the car engine cool for only then could he step out and walk the rest of the way.

Bright lights darkened the night for now and now was all there was.

Short Story

The Train

Brilliant colours arrayed the fields – peaks of gloopy cones spanked with new snow scattered the tips of the horizon, settling upon the gigantic ships. Plonked boxes to warm the inhabitants stand at close range. BANG! it can go at any second.
Pug-nose bled trains, rusted, rendered more and succumbed to the static death at an agonising rate. Breathe they can, but panting is over. The trains of Carnforth abandoned for all to see…

47245…47826…47851 numbers on the disused become warrant receipts for the next arrival. When?

Waiting for his train, he sardonically gnarled at people wanting to sit at the very same seat his bag was at. He wasn’t in the mood to be accommodating. He isn’t really this way inclined, however today represented a well trodden attitude he possessed.

You’re not taking in when looking or seeing – you’re letting out!

Slathered marsh – green grey brown brooks a-washed with kitchen sink pools. Amassed with ponds of great virtue, the surrounding crags cringed to their perilous course. Paraded trees templed the hills with spires of dark spikes autumnal branches. It is here where you buried your beloved.

Ugly with know-how, knowledge and knowing. How it turns to beauty at a twist – to know how, to have knowledge and to know. The purpose belongs to me. To her, she had it and went beyond. The journey tells her tale. She has been able to come back with profits. Beaten and bruised, she needs the police. Call them! “Harm has happened,” the shouts ring in everyone’s ears. “who’s the witness?”
“I am!” confirmed an attention seeker. But there was really no one but her – and she is not recalling the events.

Close the courts, no news today. It has already happened yesterday. You arrive at dusk.

Short Story

Will and Test and Meant


He dreamed of new things, of old habituals, of the longing, of the going down, and it was heading down to a far away distance from where he was sitting. He sat in a crowded room; not of people crowd, but of stuff crowd. He looked and felt himself wanting to get away, this very day. The only way he was going to get there was to delegate it to his imagination. His feelings got created there.

They dwelled melancholically there, fuelled by his thoughts and associations. The room reminded of what his daylights fixated on. He was not anywhere near here where he felt, except those feelings that appalled, repelled and persecuted him. He saw his limitations within the tight room of things; surrounded by things that did not matter anymore. Things that constituted dismay and dust. Things that harboured immaturely of the non-progressiveness he was. Progress was certainly one way he thought he wasn’t being. He succumbed to objects more than desires. The tower of Babel was built on his shit. He hated it all, and it resembled nothing of him in the end. Why did he collect? Why did he horde? Why did he keep? It was one too many why’s and three too many thoughts. He felt abandoned by the very person he wanted to be. He kept a diary in his mind of things he wasn’t, and this engulfed his senses and attacked the essence he was projecting. The paradox he was facing now seemed overwhelming, and the clamour came about him in a defiant rejoice. “You are not alone anymore! You have US!” It all proclaimed joyously. His things; his stuff; his entrusted belongings.

He had this affair from early on when his father died. Left a Will; a Will of ambivalence and with an abrasive rub to all who he said he loved. He loved none, let alone himself. And his family’s leftovers fought about his things. The good and the bad came out. His estranged wife, whom he hit once on recognition of his failed attempt to be with anyone he actually acclaimed to feel love for, reclaimed sufficient sums from the very son she bore who was his father’s guarantor to be obliging of his odious wishes. This was the older son. The heir. The reign. The beguiler. His father, the ruler, wished all to have none. This son had no choice but to obey, but to then storm out crying due to the pressure he felt he had to accompany his father’s deed. He never forgave.

This same father left his only son to shine in the dark he shone. And yet, this was a down-and-out man who not only violated his only son’s wants, but endorsed the erosion of his adopted son’s ambitions but could never support. This very son, the outer, was not one he understood. He was afraid more of him because he wasn’t him. He was no one. He represented nothing he had, nor knew, nor cared for. But the older son, the fair-haired wonderment, this was his, and he abused his senses beyond the grave. What for? He was dead and therefore forgot it all. He had no more of the memory for the late life he had. And he had nothing, but his family gave everything.

The boy walked out on what was to be his version of his father’s Will and Testament. It was printed and he, the brother of the other, obeyed. It was given to him to defend and define, but in the very defence and definition, he failed. The poor boy had no other escape except to leave. He never cried in front of anyone before, but he cried to his dead dad. This, for sure, was mutiny. It was a blight on all who seek the money they fought over. They fought not willingly but because of the Will that prescribed atrocities. He, a man of little worth, inwardly created such worthy heretics to his divinity. They fought his godliness nevertheless, as anxious as each other, and as saddened by the whole saga as it was. The good son, fair weathered, stormed out of the meeting leaving them open mouthed with a lawyer whom presided and validated; the son felt alone. Vanquished due to his allegiance to his beloved father, and all was left bereft of the fallen one. They all felt defeated. They all felt the lack of want. They all felt no love from the man they wanted it from. They all wanted to be acknowledged.

The dead don’t give.

His sister threw a grenade into their life before by exclaiming she and the right son where flourished with his love as opposed to the adopted. Her statement was only wanting to grab at the love-crumbs of the ashes of her biological father who was reduced to. This adoptee’s father came back in a jar from afar, for fuck’s sake. His uncle, the husband to the father’s sister, said they all died overseas, these types. These geneticists of a bad heart. A flawed heart. One heart failed at his attempts to revive, from a sofa, in a foreign country under a flawless blue sky. He was a doctor, so he knew what to do, and yet there was nothing to do but practice. He lost a very dear and enduring one. She was loved but not by some. So it goes for all.

But her brother and the father and husband to the rest of us was examined upon his Will. He left it all for the anger it seemed to them. A bloodbath he wished to see, but it was only ever enacted on his death. What a strange fellow to keep hold of feelings when he had nothing to hold to. And it was prescribed as any drug given, for he was a pharmacist. A beacon to many in the locale of his pilled empire. He held high advantages in clubs and organisations in the countryside for all of the dim witted beings who believed a certain education meant superiority to be the proclaimer of authority. However he got it. He landed on the moon of morons. He escaped the city of sceptics. The country behaved as he wanted. He was home, and always will be. The club gave him a headstone in a parking lot to prove his worth to a life.

And he was holy loved, this man of means and wants. He had it all and not once did he actually believe it himself. He kept up appearances as it seemed he needed to. He was a good son as well. His only photograph of him and father fated the belief when he followed him willingly. It looked sad to his sons. It was not what they thought, but they never knew the older man. He died before they were born. And his seed was implanted in the only grandson he never saw. But by god he would be proud of his stupid honour.

This was a gene-d gene-know. His knowledge about pride was portrayed in prominence many years prior to his own son’s acceptance of the rusty throne and assumed entitlement. He wasn’t betrothing a throne, for he had never assumed he had one, but his son did. And this happened to be only the heir of air. He sat, squashed flat on arse. He felt abandoned by his own misguidance. He felt and was alone. He walked out nevertheless of the people who gathered to talk about the abolishment of the reign of the loved ogre by coming together and joining forces; but it felt none of the sort. They all felt failures. This was a kingdom of nought that the father and the father (and how many more) before had built, and thus came that it was not the successor to carry forth the father’s legacy. It halted there amongst the misery. Oh, hail the deceiver, the decadent; the unloving. We pray to the dead; the death and the dying. For this we wish on others, our lot. Come and be merry in the aftermath of the atomic bomb of love. He will destroy to your glory. Praise them and rise them who thinks them worthy, for they are not and never will be. Laugh at them who are the martyrs to the cause of confusion. Be mighty against the wicked Truth, the bend in the lie; the escapee of the law. Will and the Will alone is the untouchable grandeur so one thinks.

And so the outer one, the adopted, the leftover, looked upon his dead useless things. The remembering of what he was derived from the life of falsehood and gracelessness. He came to his adopted father’s alter and took the very same icon as a gift. And he holds it, stores it for the viewer to say “ah” and “oh”. To be impressed upon. To hold his love in things that adorned the one he thought he was giving love; the dead loving. He became the very thing his adopted father and others came to believe. It was what all of humanity behaved and believed in with such vile aspirations. The incense of innocence is enough to make one sick. We swallow the sickness continuously like a chick in the frenzy of the mother bird’s vomit. Each mouthful is sweeter only due to the acidity of the volume of spit proclaiming to be pure. It is solid. Lumps thought as fluid.
We again seek what we are owed. What are we owed? – he looks eerily at his stuff of purgatory. What is left except things, and do we want things to be the result of us? Yes. This is it. Here, in a room full of stuff, he concludes the falsehood of his belongings and to the stuff he accumulates.

He has no need any more of him, his stuff as him. Him being his belongings; the suitcase full of life’s  breaches. He cannot pass the insecurity gate to get on board with these alarming assortments. He thought he had one-hundred-mills of life’s sources, when in actual fact it was just an abundance of perfume. The Insecurity-personnel takes them and disposes of them to the bin in the corner. He is then free to get on board – to fly away.

This left with him enduringly.


Short Story

Nothing Found, Nothing Ventured

Nothing. Nope. Nowt. Naught.

The pinnacle of travelling to the countryside was really supposed to have a relaxing time and an adventure of the slow and sensual sorts. It was time that Julie and Mr Font could get a chance to be alone, to tap into their energies through sex, frivolity and glasses of wine. Their weekend break was a weekend rent in a remote part of the country, where the winds continued to howl even without a push of a strong gust, and on occasions (very frequent occasions), rain would fall at an angle of ninety degrees. It was what they wanted though. If the weather was shit, then the bed was the refuge; the real reason for their escapade. The space away from others.

Mr Font worked up until the dot of five on the Friday of their departure. Julie had an early drinking binge session with some girlfriends as one of the team in the research department at the university was leaving for pastures greener. The afternoon work schedule was to be replaced in favour of the special occasion: they knew they wouldn’t see her again, the deserter. So with one sloshed brain, another feverishly charged and with both pants full of pulsating lust, their trip took a longer than previously anticipated. Tripping through the open space of the countryside, the fields would hug corners and banks of various roads. Destination: east coast. Quicker by train it would have been, but Mr Font’s car was a fun vehicle (to him) and any chance he could spin the wheels, he would. Sometime in to the beginning of the tip, and within the green limits of the countryside, Mr Font suggested a wicked something to take them off track for a while, parking in solitude and secrecy. Nine nights without each other had built up some expectation, which was soon expelled. Mr Font and Julie were soon back on the road, relieved.

Julie had no interest in the car only that it was fast and sporty and made great oogling from strange staring men sighting blond hair in a red convertible. But soon the sun sank behind clouds, and with that, they just got thicker and thicker. It was a reflection of a happening to them before this trip; the sun will come out again, if not for the weather, then for them. They hoped.

Upon the hill and past the signpost that was the telling of the final tilt towards the second half of the trip, Julie became a little distracted of her feelings when she had to eat with some of them right away. She turned to speak to Mr Font.
“Can you leave her?” It surprised him, because they hadn’t really started to talk about the third wheel. She was at home with the other wheels of the family that he was prepared to give up this weekend to be Julie. Julie on the other hand was giving up her flat only. And a few indoor plants to attend with some water.
“No. Not yet. We have things to work out, and I don’t want to give up the children. It isn’t the time.” he was obvious, to the point, and frank. She was listening but refusing to listen at the same time. There was a sentence her friend said to her some time ago: when they tell the truth, always know when they do.
“Why…” she began to sound pleading, which she wasn’t prepared to do. She wanted to ask why couldn’t they be together, so instead she changed in mid sentence:
“…aren’t you leaving her? The children; we can make sure you get custody.” He smirked and brushed away the conversation with haste. He swallowed hard to avoid any interference to his genitals being active about the weekend ahead. He was thinking of that part.
“Look at the sky. It is so dark, and we are just half way to the house.” It was darkening slightly more than he had thought initially it would be like, this weather. He was not anticipating a storm, but it looked like one was growing a head of an enormous rage.

Julie watched the clouds and felt the wind’s gusty blows going hammer and tongs and other utensils at the car. The roof back on for this time of the year, was getting battered and bruised. It was only a soft top. Julie looked at the other soft top. He was blissed out on sexual desires and dreaming of legs akimbo, down to the lowest part of his base animal desires, he was close to sitting and pissing if it got any lower. She smirked, and cautiously ponders what was inhabiting his brain at this moment of desiring her bod. It was a tentative enquiry, and soon she backed down – didn’t want to go that far in. Didn’t want to know. The rain was coming and soon soaked everything.

Up on the last stretch, three hours a driving, Mr Font kept a little surprise for his passenger. He had found a bottle of champagne at home, around the place (it was hidden from his wife) and from reaching behind her in the cramped area that has no reason to be there, especially for additional passengers, he produced it with a glee and a surprise. Julie for her part was equally excited and gleeful, and loved the surprise.
“Tonight we will open this up and have a toast and get all snugly and cosy. We are nearly there.” And soon they were, another few miles and it was safely there, no harm and in time for a relaxing throw off of rainments and a wonder around the premises.

It had stone walls, four bedrooms and two bathrooms. En-suite with the master bedroom, and a large open planned space for the kitten and lounge area. Timber was an additional feature, and walls where dark tanned against grey slabs. An impressive site for a combo old and new styles. The main house it self would have been a few hundred years old, but the update was recent as two years ago. Julie above all gasped at the scenery as the dark started to descend. She still had time to take in the sunless sunset as the west coast was receiving the full pelt of the rays, but the remains of the day showed the beach in full view and a beautiful storm to anger the waves. She was standing at the best feature the house had to offer – panoramic vista via huge glass doors and walls, from floor to ceiling, a large outside decking from the house, with a pool. All as private as a nun’s bottom.

It was more than enough for the two of them, and she just held the view until it was gone to dusk and night. She hadn’t noticed that while she was doing this, Mr Font obligingly bought in the luggage and food for the weekend which was bought at the supermarket that day, on the way.She helped him with the bags of food, attending to the spillage of one of them that toppled over the bench. He in turn helped to put them in the refrigerator and groped her every time she got near playfully. He placed the bottle of champagne into the freezer to get the temperature down as quickly as possible, and then he grabbed her, flung her against the bench, and began to take her knickers off from under her skirt.

After the fling on the bench and on the kitchen floor, they untangled and enjoyed the setting of the ambience. The fellowship of their unity was engaging enough, but not prolonged enough. Soon Mr Font had another thought – food. He ate and she smoked. They both drank, and she smoked. They sat and talked about poetry in business and academia. She smoked. He went to the toilet three times. And still they drank. The champagne was perfect, and the red wine to follow was tantalisingly dulled by the senses that were swimming frantically in the drunkenness. She smoked, and he went to bed. She emptied the bottle, a few swigs, and then went out to the balcony that was a welcoming embrace of cold sharp weather. Therein had stopped, but its remanence was the soaked wooden planks and the glistening surface. It was clear now. The stars were there to greet her with sudden exposure which she hadn’t ever been subjected to in the city. She was born in the city and lived all her life there amongst the buildings, clubs and bars. She was a product of the environment that tilted toward glass and steel, not clay and wood. Rain was ever present though, and she knew much of this even in the confines of her albatross apartment. The expense made her hungry and powerless through the power she wielded as a manager. She managed nothing but the enforcement of the paperless office she had to instil, to which remained desktop starvation. She encompassed the speech and the clutter of a boy for nought. She had nothing to give. Not even herself. Except to Mr Font. She gave and gave. She embedded herself in to his mind, and took it to mean more than groin and grabs. But remained unconvinced that anything she performed even dented the absurd imagines of a mental case convinced of his own responsibilities. She was therefore left with none. No responses from any of the wants she endured. And the stars told her thus.

Upon the gathering of the air in her lungs, she smoked more to take the taste of his cum further away. It was never sweet, but the tastelessness of nothing. It couldn’t even be bitter. She had compressed much of her desires to this weekend, but instantly she had the feeling it not being a success. She moved cowardly throughout the wondrous rooms that were a joy to see, but never to belong. It was rented,as much as she felt now that she was. And he was asleep.

How pitiful, how improper, how unremarkable Mr Font seemed now. He wasn’t even interested in leaving his wife and children. Fuck them. Fuck them all. Yes, even his children. What right have they over her? She at least was here now and welcoming. She was wondrous. He slept it out, and drank it full. He was a taker, and never a giver. His spun was the only thing to give, and it was useless. He was snipped and therefore never going to have the children she was questioning whether to have or not. The choice wasn’t hers. It never will be with him.

The stars listened intently to her thoughts, and corresponded with each other to confer their thoughts. They all agreed. He was nothing any more. She had this feeling from the beginning, but took it to another level. A secret chamber and locked it up to never to be revealed. But never say never. It came back, escaped and caused havoc. Murdering with good intentions, and planting bombs of aircraft destruction in her heart. She was pissed, but now even more pissed than the alcohol could ever allow. She looked up and looked across. Expansive darkness fitted perfectly her mood. She had choices other than the ones she was thinking most prominently. But prominence is the key and the winner. She had this intelligence. When younger, her parents fought hard to make her dumb. Mr Font didn’t know she had parents. She doesn’t, not to her anyway.

Having given much thought, she was wondering what cause of action to take. She knew and she acted, returning and retiring to bed after the last cigarette and swill of drink. Off to bed, dear Julie and be at ease for the decision was clearer.

The next morning, he flopped over after a night of snores and twitches. He had been a loud oxygenated bod who kept her awake some of the night. It was more concrete for her to say what she had to say and do what she had to do. She felt cheap when he again went for her breast after a night’s lumber, and here his breath was vulgar and stunk. She hardly kissed him. Her body this time did not react to his attentiveness. His cock was hard and pokey. He made dashes to her vagina, as she just lied still and took it contemplating it was never going to be enjoyable again. She was suddenly saddened by this, and if he felt it he ignored it. She had nothing to show her disgust, as he continued on his best to penetrate and procreate nothing. He spent and seeded a dead birth. It never reached her own life.

He got up, and dressed after a shower. All the while she lay stupefied by the impact that had happened. She was on a weekend break with a married man who was not in love with her the way she wanted to be loved. She had intentions, and although conniving as she was, she could not convince him due to his dulled image on marriage and family. He was a blunt instrument, as blunt as his sperm has been.  She watched him dress in his refinery, and he smiled a docile smile. She felt sick by this. She had more to say and no one to say it to. The stars heard it, but they were gone. Befriend and eft for dead the next day. Mr Font got the breakfast ready. He was only good at doing, acting, and producing ideas. He was rubbish at compassion.

At mid morning, they had a walk in the woods near the ocean. The tress were straggly and unimpressive. Nothing tall or grandeur. Just slim and limp. Sand was the soil. The surf rolled brown sea to the shore of boring pebbles. The ocean wasn’t what she had thought. She had seen other oceans and seas. Blue and turquoise. Rolling waves like skateboarders doing tricks and stunts. She had no excitement here, and refused to go in the water when he beckoned. He beckoned a lot Mr Font did she remarked to herself. He was always beckoning, and when he didn’t beckon, he would just take anyway. She watched him as the surf gobbled him up, but released him soon afterwards. It felt somewhat disappointing that his head came up to the surface again. She had thoughts as she did of her family that drowning would benefit her. She watched and waited for the moment that never came. He lolled out of the water like a kid on cocaine. Innocently stupid and drugged. He grabbed her again, and she removed herself quickly. Mr Font noticed, but as usual thought no more of it.

Nothing. Nowt. Never.

Julie had her dinner on the balcony, the raft styled decking. She had a sinking feeling she was going down with the Titanic. She watched that movie in her twenties, and now in her forties she felt colder and deader than the actors who pretended to drown. To all accounts, she was not pretending anymore. It stung  that he was not willing to venture forward with her. She had images of his allegiance to his wife and children and the abandonment of her. She saw herself alone and old, dark and crippled. An overwhelming sense of worthlessness defended upon her sense and she was helpless. Mr Font came to her side not as an aid to her needs, but a wanting to his own.
“What did you think about the dinner I made? You liked it?”
Nodding, she replied yes. It was fine and thank you for cooking the meal. That was nice of you. Mr Font smiled, and kissed her lips. He was good at that. He felt good and covering her out with his was a good touch. But the other touching had other implications. Her therapist warned her against commitment. It had reverberations to her upbringing. Mr Font never knew any of this.

Julie ate sporadically, and finished a portion of the plate. Recognising her absence, Mr Font commented on her eating to draw attention to the moment they were sharing. She blinked three times to focus on this time, and remarked that she wasn’t feeling well.
“You ok?” He sounded sympathetic.
“I feel tired and I think things are a little confusing for me now.” Oh no, she was heading into territory that would cause rupture and splints. “I am feeling, well, like you don’t want to be with me.”
“Sure I do hon.” Replied Mr Font. He was however cautious of his comments. “I want to be with you all the time. I miss you, babe.” Babe was an ugly expression. Horrid and unflattering. In fact at the very worse, it was lazy. He was lazy. The whole arrangement was lazy despite his espionage. Julie looked away. Her friends encouraged her as they twinkled. She had support at least she felt.
“I think we better not see each other after this. I am feeling left out, and I am unsure I want to see you.” this had pangs of anxiety in Mr Font now. Something she at least wanted to see. He exposed a sense of fear.
“Listen, it’s just I can’t think of leaving Sam now. She is a good person and the children I will have to leave too, and I don’t want to do that. But I don’t want to lose you too.” He pleaded. He was pleading, but he didn’t pick up on it. He was interested in his own intentions. Fair enough, but not at the expense of herself she thought.
Julie could feel an argument coming on, but did her best to move away from it. “I just think it will be better for us to have some space.”
“No. Not really. Look, Julie, I love you and want you. Sam I don’t love, but it is hard to leave her now. It can’t be that for long, but I have to make something out of nothing…” After his talking on, Julie had nothing to hear any more. She heard what she needed to hear. The rest was just noise. She moved out of arms reach, and this gesture humiliated Mr Font. His surprise was replaced by blaming her for her being there, for her seeing him, and for her to fuck him. It was a horrible lash. It came from nowhere but from the pit of hm. His ideals were uncovered. Be still, and don’t move it felt to her. She had a cheese knife, and while he spat and sullied, she clenched and clutched ready for a moment when the line would be crossed. He did, and a slap went out and she hit him hard when he pronounced her slut. It was the hand free of the knife though, It was a reaction of restrain and tolerance despite the hurt and bitterness. He glared and grimaced. It was all he could do, except the worse was to turn his back.

Why had he become so aggressive so quickly, and yet it wasn’t a surprise? She held the knife steady in his back. Yes, it was in his back because he turned. He moved away, and cared little if nothing for her. And she wanted something for him to feel. And since her love and desires weren’t enough, what about the steel? He felt that, and he fell from that. To her feet he collapsed and to her horror, he breathed hardly. It was a deep plunge, presumably in his lung. Or heart or neither or both. She had no idea, despite her medical background. He was done for and felt the warmth of his own blood cover him like a jacket.

She stood motionless, and for a moment or two, emotionless. She was interested in what he was doing lying on the floor. She had no idea that the knife was even there despite her insisting it to stay put. She was distant, and removed.

He will obviously leave his wife and children now.

The ocean pattered like the sound of heavy rain outside the window of the bedroom, gently waking her up. The smell of the warm summer air came flooding through the glass doors to the master bedroom being opened. It was a glorious day. No clouds, no rain and no sadness. She felt it, and she leaned over to kiss Mr Font. Her arm across his back as he lay on his stomach. He was motionless. Completely without knowledge of her affectionate kiss. She rubbed his shoulders and spooned his body a bit to entice his awaking.

He would soon awake she felt. Soon he will be getting up, but not yet. She moved back away from him and lay on her back gazing out to the sea that was there as an excitable child: “come on! Get up!” it splashed.

His arm moved under the sheet and around her belly. He rubbed her in a dreamingly manner. He was sleepy but nearly there as a fully conscious being. He replied to her spooning with his own, and the dick was a nice hard gesture for the way it was going; the way they were to have this affection under the circumstances. He was moved by her, and felt it fall away from his life. He wanted to give it all up, and be with Julie.

The day to move out and back again to the city which saddens the whole exposure to the sun and sea. The day was vibrant. The drive took in a new air, as the sun shone all the way home. The homes to what they knew they were. Mr Font dropped Julie off sadly at her flat. She smiled to know that he was caring for her and feeling remorse to let her go. This was enough for now. She had felt it all too easy before for him, so seeing his suffering this much meant more to her than he knew. He kissed full mouthed on hers, and squeezed a tender squeeze on her thigh. He let her go, and she got her things and went indoors as he drove away. Neither of them took another look. Not today.

She kept this ideology of a promise through perceived telepathy. He would be back.

Maybe tomorrow.

Short Story

The Fall

The vertical fall was only a man’s height, but it took forever to crash. With a whirr and a whizz, the head tilted back and the eyes followed down from the horizon. The sea that saw the episode looked shocked, seemingly raced to gather him up as he fell, and so clashed at the rocks.  With waves as outstretched arms, it failed to grab him and retreated in helplessness. Judging by the  style of collapsing, it appeared he died of a heart-attack.


The poets came back with their most recent works, trepanning his emotions. He thought of nothing else but her at this moment – the remains of a smile, the eclipse of her hair across her moon face. Colours changed as the sky moved her sheets to cover the sunny face. She was not happy today.

He knew April balloons burst. His immaturity took to disliking his new fondness for strength, and only once did the ego highlight a terrible thought: the lose of many years before.

The love didn’t come from anyone else. He finally got to really feel it, even though he always knew. It wasn’t anything anyone could give, as neither did he.

“I can’t hold onto this feeling forever” he mourned. He took it to heart, to the very beginning  of his being. A spike in the epicentre of existence in all that he felt. He kept it right at the apex of all of the knowledge he acquired; all his incompetencies suddenly became known, the pinnacle of possibilities well within his reach as they always were. He just hadn’t been interested in them. Until now.

“I want to.” His focus kept him inadequate for the moment that he was experiencing. His own brain betraying him, and yet befriending him at best. At worst, it was not letting go. Coming with attacks and torture she portrayed what was really happening now; the longing for better. He hadn’t had this kind of better at all, even though he mulled it over a many millennia-minute, he never understood a single drop of his consciousness.

She, to him, was all too encompassing. All too Almighty. All too God. Never human. Let go and forgive even though he didn’t, he would. The arguments and the flaws were going to be subjected to judgement. What use and advantage was his judgement? He said many times I love you, and only once did he let slip that he didn’t. This was the real moment – the blessed moment he missed and messed up. Cowering, he tightened more saying that was freedom in is message. He said so. How could he be wrong? How ever could he find a way back to the beloved? How many gurus would it take to seek the right answer that he wanted, not what he deserved? He stopped being him long before, and he never let go of the thoughts; of what he was. Showing him him. Incomplete and riddled with confusing messages. He allowed poor poets to translate him  woes; spilling Nile like river flows of mess-ups into his organised chaos. He waded in and felt warm water made frozen.

He deserved this, he said to his heart as it ached with the back bent and collapsed legs, muscles folding and mouth dropping. His eyes fell and his arms flopped and his teeth clenched and his stomach churned and his fingers pinched and his toes curled and his chest tightened and his shoulders stretched and his anus gaped and his nose ran and his ears unheard and his knees buckled and his neck crooked and his penis seeped and his mind exposed the sorrow he kept for so long – for so god-damned long.

“I’m crying that you never came.” The melodrama played out to an unsuspecting audience of sea-gatherers and expressionless tour-gangs. But he wasn’t crying, nor had he intended to. I was pure showmanship. A startled performance before his failing eyes. Theirs, this crowd of inexperience, had scarcely time to recognise a man and his endeavours to entertain. They came to watch the sea originally. This falling man seemed more expansive than that which was crashing near them at the shore.

They saw from each their own vantage point a man looking ridiculous, looking stupid, looking provoked, looking awkward, looking clumsy, looking pale, looking hurt, looking needy, looking worried, looking dazed, looking drunk, looked drugged, looking idiotic, looking like he is having a heart-attack – everyone just stood, unable to move. It was all too fast and all too slow. Each of them, worried of being judged by their surrounding peers, made not a muscle move in the direction of the falling man.

They watched him crash.

A young man, gangling near, treated him with suspicion. An act of  criminality was being committed, and he was not going to be a part of it. Stepping away from the moment and the movement he made a space between them. Further from the fall he sort. From the height of living the fallen man made. The falling  portrayed a threat; the young man was not keen on engaging with a madman. Even though he saw him falling, stepping away was in order to be not a part of this lunatics antics. In all honesty, he thought he was drunk as the others did as well. Leave me alone and don’t bother me with your collapsing.

Here amongst the land-sea of people, he knew no one. No one knew him. He was alone amongst a clammer of strangers. He was amongst his kind, but not his kindred. Not one of them attributed him with that acknowledgement. They all had their soliloquy, and his like theirs, was their own. A great tragedy was unfolding to our friends, as he himself was heralding the passing of him. Hand waving and at the same time drowning, he bid farewell as he begged for help. He was, to him and all, a dying man. Farewell and begone.

He thought he was the only kind left, and ever of his sort; of himself. Him alone was a unique nature. His dreams had manifested unbeknownst to anyone around. He could see the same as they could not.

Falling man resides to know this – finally – and he accepts it with a breath in; giving in while exhaling out.

God of man made imagery clubbed him and gave him head wounds of unworthy. Worthlessness now. All of it. All of it descending like corpses in a pit. A pit of pity, and the piety that shows the usefulness – looking into the bag. It was of tricks and these are nothing. He gave nothing up of the skinned shield around him. He blasphemed himself, becoming his own anti-him. All the while, cursing at the folly of lies; lies all are keeping to make peace with a gormless god. This wretched god who laughs as many gods did before him. They live for it, as they keep them alive. At the moment death is happening, god runs to the bunker, coward and afraid, making more of an attempt to dispel than to help. At least these people unwittingly stayed to bear witness to an end of lies. Go away god, he spoke.

Tumbling Jack with the stand-alone Jill on the hill, with nothing more to offer and refusing to follow. For what would that do to her? Cause a headache. And so no one moved for the falling man.

Now comes her, and her powerful ways. It envelopes him and scratches at his decaying skin shield. He has time to look upon the gravity of the person who it was all along. He looks at her eyes that portrayed a hidden vice and a clear objective of negativity. It was pure. It was potential. It was her negativity he stole like a thief in the night. He came through the window-glasses and struck an angry fist upon the minds, stealing the treasures of  hate and therefore the objectivity of love. He kept it in him, and tried to make it his, but the moths knew there was light in the darkness, and earnestly battering away at the soul in an attempt to get at it. They would sooner die than be his. Upon seeing the love, the ashes that it was now, he became the phoenix. Begin the parody. Wanting this drama-love at this moment, this death time, he flashed a boot to crush and grind it as he had always done. But this was no time for this kind of thing now. He had no reason to have this hilarity any more. He wasn’t to live long, so triumphantly he returned to what was and what always will be: himself.

Hell, as he had heard, was not under the soil he was falling toward. From this avid eye, he recognised the soil and the manifestation of his life as dirt. The glorious hatred and the wickedness that resided, was not even remotely close. The sadistic and the sublime, intertwined and twinned with care and love. The huge grief fell upon the weak character that hid, bringing out in rages and thrashes of sadness and destitute. He felt tears of abandonment, perceiving the good he had done for his devilry to exist. The light was not all there was in searching as he was blinded by the darkness. He had forgotten the moths. Like old clothes in a closed closet, he was eaten.

He began to scoff now and bellow  winds back. He fought to be rid of the feelings he had and the fights he took on to regain trust. It was his trust he never regained. It was his fights he took on for himself. All else was an objective, a mirage, forever a filigree to his imagination. And he laughed at this. All laughed back. He found humour in it. Compassion overflowed with all of the lustfulness and hatred he ever had. If only this was summoned up in his life. If only he had been accommodating of himself and his wrongs of right. Oh the joy to have, and the horrors to endure eagerly. As man has never endured long enough that these horrors be terrible truths of lies. He gave in, the pathetic; he endures sugar too long. Salt he needs now, and plenty of it to balance his ph.

They are not the balance, as they are heavy sides of the see-saw. They know. He knew every one belonged to it without the use of clubs and staying in castles. They picked for themselves what they wanted, and this he accepts. He will say in his last breath “I never loved you” and it was this truth in him to be a lie of his life.

It was only life. Something bore it. Channelled it to the common space. He hadn’t a clue to life as he died. He was forever trying to forgive himself without knowing there was never anything there to forgive.

He had belonged to a tribe of morons, working all the while to enhance the feeling of it being right to be here or there. He  never took a step back and gave it space to breath; to taste the air; to have a say about whether it should live or die. But they weren’t going to kill: that is your doing, boy-o. You do the killing, and I will do the death, they whispered. But his ears were closed.

As he fell, the others in the vicinity of the sea-front-see-death continued to speak to none, but all knew of it eventually. Some took their time in coming to the obvious conclusion, but that became not so obvious in the wake of the falling man. They mentally produced pictures and graphs, some relating it to childhood, and others relating it to their dead mothers, but none of them actually kept their eye on the man’s death. They couldn’t see it because they were busily chatting in their heads of what might happen next. The channel was the same, the man was the same, the time was the same, but the event was different all the time.

He started to remember as he fell the times he spent going to events and practices – he sought out remedies and heroic returners written in gospels according to them and those;  the divine associates. He saw poets transform others, relinquish and uproot their transgressions. He longed to be a part of this elite and ideology, to be enfolded in the right way astuteness. He developed the personality of reforming, but never accomplished the workload – his was a lazy obsession filled with contempt.

The pulling began to happen in his chest. He acknowledged it, and the grip it had upon him. He worked out very quickly that it was as if death had a hand and made itself known. Infant, it clawed its way upon him, grabbing the chest first and then the shoulders, neck, arms. He wrestled him to the ground, and he swung his legs around his waist. The pulling continued, even though his body reacted stubbornly, his mind relinquished more and more. Giving up the air his head was at. Giving up the air his lungs ate. Giving up dreams he possessed. Giving up the sex he conquered. Giving up the endurance he postulated. Giving up the visions he rendered.

Giving up him.

Becoming void of all longing, he soon realised that the air was harder than the ground he once walked upon. The air didn’t enter him any more. It didn’t go into his lungs and into his lining like he was accustomed to. It bothered him little though, and centimetre by millimetre, his lungs pushed out but never took back.

Most things were happening inward for him. It was inward where he was reducing to. He’s inflation to the exterior had little to do with anything in his present condition, and he knew full well this. He was going into places he never knew existed, or to be rightfully accurate, he was entering places he avoided. He was never to be the same and this was of no consequence anyway to the outcome of this journey he is undertaking.

He kept a firm hold, for it would be the death of him. If that ever was for him to go, he would follow forever the traces left in the sand. Or so he thought. And the thinking was no longer part of this conversation. He was slipping away from any of his seance. Any of this glue.


He stopped missing – missing them all. He had a wallet of photos of the past and present. He had none of the many. He had listed them in his head especially for this moment, but what did they matter? What did any of them mattered?

Upon feeling the fall, he spent his time looking back at his son in the past. His ball was crooked and punctured. His son remained motionless with an ascending smile. He felt like crying, but for all the wrong reasons. He felt safe from all of these visions – he knew the special effects and make up. The timecode stamped infinite. His supposed creation slipped away, foamed and slithered into the sea.

So began what seemed moments of reconciliation for him. The party watching only could see seconds as he alone felt eternity. Each moment was spotted momentarily, moments he felt lasted before, during and after the sun. He became aware of the length of things; time no longer was made an issue of. At least understanding the end at this very moment, he witnessed a passing of a life and the coming of another instantly. He knew where he was, and he knew he was as safe as safe can be.

The televisions stopped broadcasting; the radios static. the internet distilled and the ground rose to greet him. He was coming back to something he never left – he knew he was part of it all. The centre of him was only an finite stop; an irregular point of registering feelings. They went as far out as they could, remaining always at his centre: he never left.

There was no more to give and no more to take. It was all going to rust and dust and turquoise and blue and hard and soft and irregular and peculiar and opposite and defiant and expressionless and emotionless and grotesque and eloquent and humorous and enormous and indulgent and ungracious. It was being what it was. Worry nothing. Nothing was coming to be heralded as much as those bastard angels who were meant to herald. Nothing of the heroism that himself and others all perpetuated needs and wants. There was no escaping the music of the choristers. The brilliant entrance of the exiters. It was no end and a complete stop. He came to realise his predicament. His knees were the first to feel hard ground. He was shocked by this and knew what was next.

The passengers of the long awaited mouthpiece of humanity gave a twitch. Twitch this and twice that; the brain twitched hoping something else would.

His moment had reached a bypass. It had managed to enlighten a bit more before its inevitable demise – it logged onto its current bearings and surmised the demise. He wasn’t worried. The brain acted this way for his last moment – for his escape. He took a notice of its behaviour – the brain that he only would presume it is him, and he glanced an awkward glance. He saw it was infinite and nothing more. It looked at itself and collapsed the boundaries. The mirror ball had nothing to reflect. It concluded it in itself was nothing more than a presence. A presence brought up by images, light and refractions.

When his hips bounced hard on the ground, it occurred to him that sex had (finally) escaped unharmed, and he reconciled his pelvis to the lushes of piss. It was warm and the last of it explored the outside world, hibernating in his trousers until some of it seeped beyond, and gained ground. He was aware that the fluid was harmonious to the event taking place in its surroundings and in its own fate. The warmth became cool-cold long after he departed. At this moment though he knew what co0l-cold felt like, and wished (for a moment) that this would continue forever. It would. He got to his belly.

His presence amongst the spectators became a clamber for steadiness. His position on the plateau encouraged tight security from the group which in turn accomplished more twitches from the cortex’s of the gathered.

His head like a ton and eyes that would soon fall out of their sockets. As he fell, the man came to another place nearer to where he is presently. All in a wrap, the people he had met came to him, and their stories as well in plentifulness. He heard them all once again. He saw his first love, naked in bed with him as he ended the mystery of what her body would feel like inside for the first time. He saw his father and mother, his  relatives, heard voices of theirs from sentences they kindly spoke. He grabbed an arm of his toddling daughter who went to close to the pool. He laughed with a friend at high school in class, where his teacher reprimanded them both for disruption. He saw a celebrity who was no one any more. He wrote a book of a whole galaxy of discoveries, that no one will be able to read.
And just like that, as his head lay still after a bounce – snap – light bristled and burst with a silent bang, calamity of sparks echoed visually, foreclosing the life he had. It was the will he now wanted. He got everything he wanted, and it was here he broke the light and found the warmth of ice. No more sights were to have as eyes don’t belong. Feelings dissolved one by one. Anger was one of the first to go along with fear and terror. Surprisingly love was quicker to go and hate was not found; interlocked as always. The feelings diluted into sugary syrup, seeping from within to somewhere he had no care for. And that was the final feeling to go – caring.

The others drew in close  by now, a moment carried them like a wave that pushed up against the stone wall nearby. The feeling of someone departing the mortal coil disrupted their plans for an enjoyable afternoon by the seaside. They would talk later of the fall, but now had them eager for more drama. It was the sea that brought them all together, but the man focused there attention away from a small horizon to a much larger one – their own.

The people crowded and flowed from all around, pushing and lapping as the sea does. Keeping the vigil on the man to see any movement, someone had the heroic idea to call an ambulance. Death was not getting out of here alive they muttered. Men in vans can fix.

Amongst them though was dead on the ground. All  witness to the fallen man’s gift to them as an expression of fantasy and romance. It was this romance they were in love with. None  knew this man’s life. None knew their own. None had an idea what experiences just happened. The voices around the grounded man spoke sullenly and often in shock, panic and awe, but none of the sounds was his. He never spoke no more. His voice, the one and only voice, had been silenced.

He could not tell them anything about it. It was done. The experience was past and yet extended beyond the crashing sea, over the collective horizons of the many oceans, and out through the stratosphere.

Nothing existed now for the fallen man.