Monday, February 28, 2011

Goodbye February

It’s been a strange month filled with ups and downs (mostly downs, but I’ll try not to focus on them). I started off trying to affirm to everybody how happy I was with the way things have been going for me and was subsequently assaulted by an anonymous comment telling me to “stop moaning”.

I’d like to thank whoever it was for causing me to realise that there is simply no point in my trying to show people how happy I am because apparently they can’t interpret it and so I have decided to go ahead in a bloody minded way just writing whatever I feel like. After all, this is my blog. I should be allowed to write what I like here about my personal life without being slated for it.

If you’re here solely to read the flash fiction, then that’s fine. You don’t have to waste your time wading through my personal thoughts.

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Flash Fiction No. 28


To Be Sorry


It is a word of convenience to some. To others it is something but not enough. These words are meaningless. All words are meaningless without truth and conviction.

How do you tell somebody that you are sorry for their loss and let them know you mean it? They smile and thank you but their hearts are little affected by these worthless whispers of intent.

There is no way for you to help with these melancholy mumblings too often heard to mean nothing and only used to escape awkward situations. You cannot feel sorry, for being sorry equates to pity and pity is not interpreted as a well wish from a compassionate heart.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Writing Methods & Birthdays

What have writing methods got to do with birthdays?

Nothing really, but I’m going to cover both things in this post so I figured it might be a bit more explanatory to go with that as a title rather than one of my usual random statements.

But first, for a quick note, you may have noticed that I’ve jiggled the blog widgets again. I promise that I’m not doing this to confuse you all. I’ve just been trying to optimise it so you can find everything so much easier without it being terribly confusing and cluttered. I hope it’s worked.

And now for some writing chatter.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Flash Fiction No. 27


A Mournful Transition

Eyes opened and breath whooshed down into the gaping chasm of his lips, wheezing down dusty passages to find his lungs. The organs creaked and expanded like they hadn’t felt breath in hundreds of years. He tried to lift his head, but it was deadweight.

The room was slathered in dust, grey in the weak morning light. He batted his eyelashes, spraying dust into the stagnant air. It made him choke, his ribcage heaving and rattling like the body of a freight train.

A monochrome hand pressed to the dull ache in his chest. Something fluttered against his fingers. At first he thought it was beating wings, a trapped butterfly or moth, but then he realised it was the feverish beat of his heart.

He coughed, scattering more dust into the air.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011


I apologise for the lateness with which I’ve been updating my personal thoughts on this here journal, but I assure you that it’s not because I’m simply neglecting you. I’ve had a lot going on, as usual; however, some of this brain rubbish pertains to other people and I’m divulging my life here, not theirs. I also have rather a situation at work right now, too.

I’m not sure on how much to say just in case somebody higher up than me comes across this, but that’s probably highly unlikely. Right?

Anyway, I work on a junction. There are two of us. My lovely friend crosses children and parents across the busy main road and I (normally) cross over at the end of the junction so I can see cars turning in from both directions and the cars leaving the junction from the secondary school.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Flash Fiction No. 26


[A continuation of Flash Fiction No. 24]

Kiss of Death

He turned over his hands, marvelling at the life that ran through their pulsing veins. After a century of wandering in the transparent wilderness of death, he was alive.

His weak knees pulled him to the floor. He was glued to the pale existence of his hands. Tears glazed his vision, but he blinked them away and turned his stare on her. Moving his lips in a breathy whisper, it was as if his voice had not been used in years.

“What did you do… to me?”

Wednesday, February 09, 2011

Burnt Offerings


I don’t think I’ve posted these poems here before. In all likelihood, they have been stashed away in my MS Word document since the time of writing without another backwards glance.

All I am is time and space,
Compound thoughts in a worried face ,
Shattered visions turn to dust,
A society that’s growing rust.

In dark places, the truth still creeps;
In hypocrisy, the world, it sleeps.

Monday, February 07, 2011

Flash Fiction No. 25


The Best Offence

He’d only ever taken two lives. This one had been on purpose.

He stuffed his stained hands in his trousers. Footfalls echoed all around him on the pavement. He kept his head down, moving hurriedly but unnoticed in his grey suit. Wearing grey was like being invisible; you were too drab to pay attention to.

He fought the urge to ruffle back through his hair. Don’t show agitation and certainly do not show bloodied hands. Eyes surreptitiously scanned the crowd. His jacket was buttoned, hiding the sprays of crimson on his crisp white shirt. Never wear white when killing.

If only he’d remembered.

Tuesday, February 01, 2011

Carpe Diem, Quam Minimum Credula Postero

“Seize the Day, putting as little trust as possible in the future.”

I feel the need to explain myself a lot. I wish I didn’t have to. But if I don’t, nobody seems to understand. Instead of interpreting what I mean and how I feel by what I do, people (most especially my mum) seem to decide what they think I should want and what they think I need is best for me.

And I have to ask, is it really the best for you when it makes you unhappy?