Category Archives: short fiction


‘I can do anything’ she said

‘Just put a crown on my head’

‘There’s four growing from my neck’

‘and I think I’m better off dead‘


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His dirty hard fingers touch me again. In the ribs, then the back, then they slide down and I’m awake, praying that those little pills kick in. There’s enough in me, and he forced three whiskeys down me to ‘loosen up’ before he took his gloves off. They usually like me tight. He likes me as long as I’m quiet. He pays well and often surprises me with little gifts. I tell him to put his gloves back on and shut my eyes. Tight.


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Something wasn’t right, not right at all. I took a sniff. The brown caffeinated bubbles of liquid gas tasted like death. I figured, after a while, that someone had put raw meat on the ice tray again. Most probably me, as I lived alone.

Mom keeps bringing bits of flesh over, dripping with blood and unidentified juices, as a way of saying ‘we know you’re struggling, we don’t want to pry, but eat something real’. I don’t digest ex-living critters, haven’t done in three years, but I’m sure if ma ‘n’ pa knew they would be phoning the nearest priest to come over and exorcise me. Or at least send for the local doc again to give me a pill.

I drank the coke down anyway, thought of the extra nutrients. I decided to make a meal of the cubes too, crunching the little slithers until I had the vague relief of brain freeze. ‘Shit’ I thought for no apparent reason and carried on with whatever it was I should have been doing.




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And in the event of another outbreak

Please leave in single file

Do not panic

Respect those around you

Walk steady

Avoid the pot holes


And tentacled robots

And remember you are in a Spectrum game.





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Sometimes you have to choose

A simple life, a 9 to 5, a wife your fond of and who will never stray, children to make you feel achievement, a mortgage, a car that runs, though you always wanted a Bentley. No tricks, no surprises, no real hope, almost contented, you will never be alone. Flatline

A life on the edge, no fixed abode, imagination, love, passion, creativity, spontaneity, highs so high and lows thunderously low, no time to catch a breath, so many thoughts, never quite catching up, a real muse you can probably never truly have.

I choose living.


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And as the hail and snow kicks in, and resolutions are made, the hidden questions in your mind spring out like broken Jack-In-The-Boxes, the ones you had buried all year, the ones you thought you didn’t have to answer.

Where are you going? who do you trust? how can you love in a world like this? Is it all just pointless? is there a goal we all score in our final days? What is the reason for it all?

And so you pick up your drink and trying to drown out the voices, become numb again. It makes more sense when you’re cold. No answers and no questions, just speaking bollocks to anyone who will listen and not remembering the words in the morning. Then, like a broken record, do it all over again as soon as you’re able to stomach it.

Just keep on running.

And then a quote from a film makes you laugh – “I stopped believing in God as its Dog backwards” and you can suddenly tolerate the world just a little bit more then normal, and maybe without that pint in your hand.


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Think straight, stand up and move on

Don’t let them in or get to you

Smells like cat sick and dead monkeys

And it make you feel dispondant


Possible martyr

Protect the strong, kick out the weak

Settle into the sound of your two flat feet

Walking to the sound of clangs, booms and bashes

Never let them under your skin

And don’t forget to wipe.




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