Monthly Archives: February 2016

Glitter Face – A Story

I had just spent the past ten minutes stuck in a supermarket queue behind a monstrously fat woman whose face was covered in coloured glitter. I only had one item, as is always the way when you’re in a rush and everyone else has the family shopping to contend with. I started to wonder if she had painted the glitter on her eyelids in an attempt to glorify her piggy little peepers, and that her constant blinking had dislodged it and caused the glitter to stick onto her sweaty face. But the glitter blotches were too random. Then I thought maybe a kid had developed an epileptic fit in the craft aisle and had shaken a whole tube over her while she pointed and laughed. But there was nothing on her clothes, apart from a few specks on her collar that had fallen off her triple chin. Finally her items had been placed through the till, three large bars of chocolate, a cream cake and a family sized meat feast pizza, a meal for one. She then made a quick grasp for a Snickers bar that were conveniently placed adjacent to the conveyor belt and threw it at the cashier. As she pulled a battered purse out of her handbag a small toy unicorn fell out and bounced along the floor and landed by my boot. Everyone stared at it, it was a better distraction than the lift music playing on the tinny speakers above. The unicorn horn was covered in multicoloured glitter and there was a tear in the left back leg. The cashier flatly said ‘you’ve dropped something love, that’s £13.94, do you have a points card?’ as the glitter faced woman struggled to reach the floor trying pick the toy up. Her stomachs seemed to gravitate her closer to the floor than necessary when suddenly, with a deep roar, she toppled over, one hand reaching for the toy unicorn and the other for the side of the moving conveyor belt. She mistakenly grabbed a packet of pork chops instead of holding onto the side and thundered to the ground, her fat almost bouncing her back up again. I recoiled in horror, like any cruel human would, and we all watched as she threw the chops across the floor and pulled the unicorn violently into her face, rubbing the glittered horn all over her until she had started to reach some sort of orgasmic trance. It was then I noticed a trail of brown urine beginning to race across the floor. ‘Fuck this’ I exclaimed and left my item on the conveyor belt and side stepped the piss on the way to the exit.


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Skin – A Love Poem…

I breathed in your skin

And gathered your warmth

Broke all your bones

So you wouldn’t walk

Then made a fire

Out of your hair

Sewed shut your eyes

So you wouldn’t stare

Danced in a circle

Poured your blood like wine

You won’t leave me now

Not this time.

IMG_7982 copy


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The Vegan and The Egg

It was then she suddenly realised that the retching smell of rotting egg was coming from under her train seat. Not to be the sort of person to draw attention to herself she pretended to drop her hand knitted glove and bent down to take a look. Every centimeter her head travelled downwards the stench got more and more potent. As she pulled her mousey hair from her eyes she saw it. A mouldy half eaten egg, possibly pickled, that had been expertly wedged between the metal struts of the train seat. It was green, yellow and grey, almost the same colours as the train company logo. She remembered that there was a new fish and chip shop that had just opened next to Wokingham train station, and how she was going to get a big bag of chips smothered in vinegar there after her forced overtime this evening and eat them on the train. The thought made her quickly lurch up while grabbing her glove in the process and looking wide eyed for an exit. As always the 7.42am train was rammed and the fat bearded man wedged in next to her huffed as she tried to levitate off the chair and away from the offending egg. Being vegan she almost shed a tear for the chick that was never born, and felt bad about leaving it, but knew if she used a tissue to remove the egg the smell would probably leak through and stain her fingers all day. She was always mocked at work for her bad breath and she was sure that it was that bitch Lyndsy that left a bloodied steak in her top draw a few months ago. She never reported it though, just took the steak outside and buried it in the flower bed. She could hear their laughs through the office windows and the blood stains never did come out of the desk drawer properly. ‘Murderers’ she mumbled. She didn’t want to make a scene on the train though, so she sat there, taking small sharp breaths and nervously looking round to make sure no one else could smell the egg. She closed her eyes and meditated about being a mother hen and the warmth from her ass through the seat made the egg reincarnate into a Godzilla sized cockerel that destroyed all the meat eating bastards at her office. She may be vegan but she saw human race as slime that should be wiped out by the things they had imprisoned and tortured. Apart from her mum, she may eat meat, but she’s just misguided and will understand one day when the chicken lord would pay her a visit. The conductor broke her trance with the announcement that the train would be delayed for 20 minutes and someone shouted ‘will someone open the fucking window then, someone must have done a shit on the floor!’ from behind her. She shrank further into her seat and tightly closed her eyes and wished she just got the later train with all her other office colleagues instead of actively avoiding them.


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The Mountainous Ass

He sits on the same seat on the 8.17am train every morning.

His pin striped mountainous backside spilling over one seat and his broadsheet newspaper shadowing a second.

He loudly flatuates every time the train takes a slight turn and coughs up a distasteful huff when someone dare walks past him in the crowded aisle.

Sometimes he flatuates so much there is a strange cloud that orbits him, the air blends into a mix of rotting cabbage and stale sweat.

He likes to clear his throat into a yellowing tissue a minute after the train doors open at a station, just to ward off those who attempt to sit opposite him.

When they do he kicks his battered brown leather briefcase into their shins until they give up and move.

He wallows for 43 minutes and will wildly holler to anyone if the train runs more than thirty seconds late by his watch.

I’ve watched him sit on someone that was already in his seat. The look of fear on the woman’s face as his thunderous ass lowered on her lap still haunts me today.

He has a season ticket and shiny brown shoes

He is an ass


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Haiku 2

Raisin turns to grape

Stuck in a backwards time shift

Dekcuf yllaer m’I sseug



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The spit is still there

That monkey sucked my toe nail

Jimmy fly just watched



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Wallowing in the guilt of wasting time

I think of it as a slow lazating crime

But then I kinda realise I’m doing just fine

Not bothering a soul

Here, in my hole

Hardening like coal

Achieving nothing


What’s your sin?


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