Archives for posts with tag: 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 »

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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