Archives for category: Fiction

Dear All Those Who Dwell in WordPress Land,


SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM…sort of? I guess so. But, seriously…


Just a quick message to let all of y’all know that my blog is connected to a Facebook page, which is aptly and obviously named Fiction, Amongst Other Things (stroke of undeniable genius, I know). I’ve no idea whether or not this would be of any interest to any of you, but hey, thought I’d evince to you all anyways.

All of my posts from here automatically appear there (ah, the power of social media integration!) but, additionally, I share and repost a whole bunch of other stuff when it tickles my fancy/floats my boat/fills my mind brain with bolts of excitement. Anything from lame inspirational stuff to advice from writers, and quotes and links to other stuff, appear there; it’s a bit of a menagerie, really. A poetic menagerie. A menagerie for writers. Maybe. I dunno. Have a look and see if your fancy can be tickled or your boat floated, and so on and so forth, etc, etc.




The neon name of the diner flickered. It bathed the street in a soft blue glow, forcing a sense of melancholy on passers-by. It reflected off the wet ground and suggested a mirror diner where things might be better.

Inside, a middle-aged, world-weary waitress in a pale blue dress and coffee stained apron stood behind a counter, off-white and worn. She cleaned the night’s dishes with a trained efficiency: working smart not fast. She’d look up every so often to check on the two men and their coffee cups.

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They finished dinner and paid and walked out into the night. The air was chilly but the warmth between them fought it off, preventing it from touching their bones. The right tram lay in wait on a road parallel to the one on which they currently stood. They traversed it and walked down a side street unknown to them where moonlight naturally compensated for the inadequate guidance attempts made by the steadfast street lamps.

They walked past cars that lay cold and dormant under that inky sky and she leapt from one to the next inscribing hearts on the windows, disturbing the perfect film of dew bestowed on each and all without discrimination by the night or some benevolent lunar goddess now forgotten.

As her fingers left the glass the symbols throbbed and swelled until they encompassed the car entirely like a blanket of mystical warmth and light. Metal shuddered as if brought to life and the vehicles started to glow and a faint buzz could be heard. A thousand bees circling the hive.

The ritual continued down the unmoving river of bitumen. What lay ahead was swamped in darkness and what lay in their wake, her wake, approached the luminescence of an infantile dawn. She began to falter. The other two joined her with a vigor rarely seen on that street. Their movements were joyous to behold. They danced silently between cars like maenads of some Bacchic rite, determined to complete a task given to them by no one but a task that when complete would evince mysteries hidden from mankind since the world was but a crying babe at the breast of the universe. A temporary life was given to those objects destined for a life of eternal and mundane inanimacy.

They reached the penultimate car and found it defiled. Some seemingly malevolent source had preempted their ancient ritual, preventing any revelation these mysteries might bring; mysteries that once grasped would bring a level of death and destruction upon the world no mortal could comprehend. They turned and witnessed the divine glow rush toward them, returning to where it truly belonged.

Behind them the tram bell tolled and they left that now-silently lit street with little comprehension of what transpired. They boarded the tram and left. Soon the memory of it turned to dust and was swept away by the winds of the present.

Flowers! Yes, flowers. That’s it. It’s the only thing imaginable. Flowers for her. A masterful bouquet made uniquely and solely for her, ordained by a higher force. O, heavenly Chloris, wife of the West Wind, floral goddess, lead me to that ethereal posy I so long to find!

Ah, I can see them now, waiting for me at an unsuspecting florist miles away. Does the clerk have any idea? Could they possibly comprehend, with their visually over-capable mind, what sits in wait on a mundane shelf halfway down the northern wall? I think not. I know not.

At last, this day finds its raison d’être. I can rise from this stupor—continue this stupor?—and hurl myself into the world beyond my borders. This self-inflicted imprisonment shall end with the most romantic of ideals. I’ll walk out into the sunshine and feel its warmth unburden me and sanctify this most noble of acts! Read the rest of this entry »

I’m sitting in Central Station, minutes after nine p.m. I’m sitting on the third allotment of benches upon the quasi-deserted platform dividing bays 2 and 3; only 8 and 1 presently house locomotives. An awkward silence pervades the entire complex, broken only by 144 sq ft television mounted on the northern wall, adjacent to a gang of vending machines, promoting childhood obesity and consumerism. The mounted colossus softly bathes iPod-less station dwellers, myself included, in popular music videos and commercial advertisements, promoting childhood obesity and consumerism. Read the rest of this entry »

You look at her and she is a princess dancing amongst fireflies. She spins and they twirl, she leaps and they follow. Like the soft glow of a barely new moon, she pervades you. The twinkle in her eye does not beget her true her. For she does not know who she is. Not yet anyway. But she will, in time. She might take you hand and the warmth will flow into you like a tsunami of want: want of love, want of protection, want of transient attention. And you will do naught, for you can’t. You are a whim. Her whim. Her azure will delve into you and you will fight from doubling over with revelation. Her pearls will make the marionette strings pull at your rosies.

When it is enough she will fly. High. She will be a giant a head above you. You are a vessel and she your captain. Through treachery she will not pass, only tolerating the good. There is no room for evil. How could you let there be? Her music will entrance yet ground all. They, and you, can see their, and your, being’s reason only through her. She is meaning, and you long for it. To taste purpose is to revile the past. But there is no point because it is pointless. Looking back is pointless. Only now can be true and she is true and what happened before is tainted; memories afflicted by the present belie truth. She is high and flighty. She enraptures all and her joy permeates throughout the hills and sands and they call back to her and she feels it.

There might be another but she is the first. It will always be so. The other(s) will come when they come and they will feel the same. New and glowing. Basking in the warmth like the mid-morning sun reaching for noon. But you won’t forget. She won’t forget. Her purity will ensure your standing amongst them all. They will know her but you won’t let them envy. Nor will she envy them because she knows. You will never leave her or them. You will stay there when sun strays and the night unfolds; when cracks appear and the foundations crumble; and when there’s no one else, just they alone, there you’ll be. Waiting, like the paragon of protection you long to be.

She must come down soon and she will. With unknowing grace and simplicity. When magenta splashes smoothly across the dying horizon she will reach for you, extending an olive branch of hope and affection. No longer a giant she wants to be small. To be wrapped with love and soothed with a tale. And you’ll bring her down softly, showing her the way. She can walk by herself, dance down the path, but still needs something to hold. And you give her that and she takes it and feels fine, as if the world were a constant joy. She is not scared because you are not frightened. Together you find home and she is safe and she knows it.

She finds her Gaia, waiting sagely. And to her she is drawn. To fall into her, to bathe in the warmth again. She comes back and stretches up, wanting to be just tall this time, not a giant. But just like you. Her arms fly around your neck and she squeezes so tight it’s almost uncomfortable. But it’s OK because it is her. She let’s go but you don’t. She pecks your cheek, like a chick picking up a seed, and you do the same. Then she captures you and she both looks deep inside you and doesn’t. You feel her gazing upon the very essence of who you are, judging you, discerning your worthiness of her love or admiration. But this is just you contemplating yourself. She’s far away from thinking about that and you know this but your mind wanders.

‘Yuv you.’

‘Love you too, Moo’.

Her body is warm. She sucks on a menthol cigarette and frost or smoke seep from her barely parted lips. A gloomy dawn pervades the cold motel room. No birds can be heard ushering in the rising sun. Only the gentle hum of the bar fridge fights off the oppressive silence.


The lady graced the warm, inviting bar with adulterous intent. A sultry atmosphere dragged itself in upon her wake. Her make up was perfect, her black dress slim, and her scent alluring. If seduction ever walked on two legs, it was she. They told her she was like them. They said she needed it. She thought she wanted it. Read the rest of this entry »

This is the story of my bench. It is not anyone else’s, only mine. Some people think it is theirs but they are wrong. Please do not forget that it is mine. You would probably do well not to forget that.

It was seven thirty-eight on a Wednesday evening. The air was cooling but still warm enough to be wearing only necessary garments. The hot, sweltering summer the alleged scientists at the Bureau had predicted had not shown any signs of occurring, for the third year in a row. But after another cold, dry winter the midday sun could leave one’s bare skin somewhat singed if exposed for any length of time.

On this particular night, my sister cooked dinner; it tasted of malice, jealousy and resentment. Read the rest of this entry »

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