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I write fiction & blog about books & films. There’s an archive of short stories & photographs. And, I have a creative notepad, of sorts.


What dark fluid pumps through your fantastic brain? What devious chemical will awake you from your terminal slumber? Always self-contained. Your concerns sparking smug excess.

All tautology and giggling. You recite Wittgenstein and Heraclitus while I watch TV. The road up — yes, I get it — is the same as the road down. Your wisdom, genius.

A tourniquet on emotion, a foil hat to keep out the radiation. And when coldness creeps like a blue lizard into the sunlight. Never a smile. Just the unknowing look of warmed stone.

Always pontificating about what is and what is not the case. Making categories for classifications. Every place, event and person, graded. Whispering secret numbers to lovers.

Lost in the periphery of an endless project to reinvent yourself. Riding on the back of past relationships. Snuggling under feather duvets. Starting, never finishing crime paperbacks.

They understood the call signs, the lattice of convention. And, ever so meekly, they break the silence. Only to turn around and re-fix their broken smiles. Impervious to cold rain.

He was so sleight, slip thin, it was easy for him to slide under the fence. When he was done he danced on the other side and made faces. Laughing as they cried.

Many times over and fickle to the point of distraction. I shadowed him in blue overalls and recited the party manual. Waiting for a celebration that would never come.

And there he is carrying a bag full of condoms, a bottle of scotch and a return ticket to Brighton — grinning at the girls as he lives someone else’s dream.

His ten year stint on the mining planet was over and now she would be waiting for him on the other side of the universe and she wouldn’t mind his alien body implants.