Monthly Archives: April 2015

Brainwashed

creative writing, Flash Fiction, short stories,

The last man to find Denholm didn’t know what to think. Denholm, on the other hand, is the very word think, having done nothing else for centuries. Denholm stores the answer that everyone craves; the meaning of life.

Denholm has currently outlived, destroyed and humiliated seven generations of voluntary human vessels. These vessels have physically transported and slaved themselves through injury and neglect over countless, irrational commands.

One thing is for certain, Denholm always remains, with one desire, however painful, inevitable exclusion from society is; endeavouring to revolutionise the backward world he was forgotten for dead in.

Now, decades after his last walking/talking case of limbs, Denholm senses a new visitor tapping inquisitively at his encapsulating tank. The clear fluid gently caresses as it ripples with subtle response, Denholm swells and thinks, ‘everything will be different this time.’

Planet Human

creative writing, short stories

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With the Sun burning holes in everyone and the fog entering us at will, the world is pushing us around.

We decide, we don’t need the world and find ways to propel ourselves, creatively, through our planet’s atmosphere.

Our flesh and bone leave home, playing out various mimes to our past interests; some cycled, some swam the breast stroke, some sat and watched TV and waited to be carried by the wind.

Meanwhile as we render our hobbies useless we’re now aboard nothing except ourselves. At the point of entry to a most spectacular bar, from such a devastating height our beliefs are shattered.

As we continue to travel in the bar, through portholes we catch a glimpse of a traditional marble, so small, a ball of purity with such an engaging transmission of strength. We are beginning to slur our thoughts, slouching, getting drunk at the all night bar.

We decide that we think it is late, but right now, it will be forever late. Together, we all agree, that for the time being, we are better off loitering here.

Then the last order bell rings. The queue is infinite. Some-kind of door opens and creates a powerful vacuum, it spins us around playfully like bland snowflakes; head to tail chain of unwanted meat. We are out of our control.

Whilst spinning, we discover that the galaxy is a comic genius, when the punchline is timed perfectly against us and we all float off towards billions of twinkling lights. To the next planet then, maybe, but first we must become sober and enrol, for there must be a job waiting for us all.

Sleepy Dead

poems

While I’m in bed, I’m trying to sleep.

When I’m trying, I sometimes think.

No-one sleeps by counting damn sheep.

There’s too many and then they go out of sync.

Hang on what is that? Feels… Looks like bloody wool!

Did they escape? They’ve made a right mess.

That’s weird I can, I seem to be looking down upon myself, on the bed.

Oh! The covers have fallen on the… What the F***, It can’t be!

Where are my limbs? I’m killer sheep meal!

I am just but a head, a right knee, oh, and a heel?

Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!

Anger Mismanagement

poems, short stories

When it came to the anger management classes, Deano thought he had it sussed. In his last session, he kicked through the doors, eyes popping and fizzing like inflatable light bulbs. Deano was bloody furious! Spewing words out like a fleshy sick gun. Words Like, Flipping twerp!

Git!

Swine!

Bastard!

Rotter!

And maybe worst of all, twats!

Barking such demonic filth at individual class members sent him crimson, his spit drenched chin shone (a la Rhubarb and custard).

Meanwhile the class slid from their chairs, coughing lunch out of their holes. The Laughter shook them in the room like a child shaking a box of mewing kittens.

The sound of laughter only made it worse for poor old Deano. Through his fingers, he looked at what he’d created. Deano slumped to his knees, cried into his hands and screamed, “I am so angry!”

Then there was a round off-beat clapping from the darkened corners of the room.

The Class was over.

Customer vs Shopkeeper

creative writing, poems, short stories, , , ,

‘Hello, I wondered if you c—‘

‘Help you? Yes I can’

‘Oh…ok great, well, are you able t—‘

‘Yes, yes I can do that for you.’

‘I’m sorry but can you please s—‘

‘Stop Interrupting! Sorry, no, I can’t possibly do that!’

‘Ok, well I’ll–‘

‘Go somewhere else?’

‘Yes! Sorry but, but do you do this t–‘

‘All my customers…yes I’m afraid I do, is it–‘

‘Annoying! Yes! Yes it bloody well is!’

‘Ah, but you’ve been here before you see, not five minutes ago, asking me for the same thing. Actually, every-day, you come in everyday and ask for something, we always have this conversation.’

‘Oh, sorry I–‘

‘No its fine, really, please come again.’

‘But I’ve forgotten what I came in for now!’

‘Precisely, it’s your conscience you see. I have lots of other customers identical to you and they never come in for the reason they thought they did. They just feel they need to.’

‘Really, what shop is this anyway? What do you sell?’

‘Shop! This isn’t a shop! No, no, no, this is, I mean to say I am…This is your conscience, like I was saying, we, we together are your conscience. It’s always like this. You see, your real-self is actually out there, outside of here, somewhere.’

‘Ok. Well if that’s the case I’m gonna go now, out there, Ok, get some air.’

‘Goodbye yes, goodbye, you were going earlier as well weren’t you, but then, yet again you needed some filling in, as always, anyway, goodbye it is then.’

‘Hello, I wondered if you can –‘

‘Help you? Yes I can.’

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Losing It (Dementia Poem)

creative writing, poems, short stories, , ,

I have a comb in my hand

What do I do know?

I have a comb in my hand

I have a wallet in my hand

What do I do know?

I have a hanky-chief in my hand

I have a comb in my hand

What do I do know?

(Bang!)

What was that? What was that?

What’s was that noise?

What’s that noise?

What do I do know?

What do I do know?

I see a face

I can’t remember

What do I do know?

What do I do know?

She’s smiling

I can’t remember

I have a wallet in my hand?

What do I do know?

It’s all gone

Can’t remember

I feel so tired

What do I do know?

Tired

What do I do now?

I have a comb in my hand

She’s talking to me

What do I do know?

Can’t remember

Ok

What do I do know?

Put my coat on?

Oh oh oh

Where are we going? Where are we going?

Doctors, oh oh oh

What do I do know?

What do I do know?

I have a hanky chief in my hand

I feel tearful

What do I do know?

 

Dream Sequence (Return To Form)

creative writing, short stories, , , ,

I’m sitting in my form classroom, at a table nearest the aisle.  There seems to be nothing outside the window, nothing except fog. I sense the classroom is full; figures mimic the blackened wood, the heads of smoking match’s; I am a match in a box of fire.

My name is called. The room is emptying, the fog knocking clumsily against the large never-ending windows. My form tutor walks to my desk in complete silence. As I recall, she was cold and unapproachable. As she hovers, ever closer, her icy atmosphere envelopes my personal space; hanging around me like poisoned oxygen.

 ‘What was her name again?’ ‘Bulchin, yes that right, Mrs Bulchin.’ Only a teacher would be called Mrs Bulchin! A name such as Bulchin could be appropriately used for the act of vomiting.

She speaks calmly with her Lancashire accent. Her voice grates my skin, decays my eardrums as so they rattle; slightly destroyed from their comfortable function.

“Nice to have your company again… Kevin. We wondered if we would ever see you again. There seems to be no account for your poor… recent… attendance.” Her last three words, so heavy, they fall and scatter; the consonants have grabbed my feet while the vowels have chained them to my school desk.

But I feel so disconnected to everything.

I’m barely able to reply, “I didn’t realise, now being thirty-five, that I needed an explanation!” My voice has played slow. The low decibels fail to carry happily through the fake, stagnant air.

Without blinking, without recognising that what she is saying to me is absurd, she stoops to my eye level and says, “You do realise you will be charged? The total you owe, currently stands at, ten thousand pounds!” She says monotonously, empty to the core.

“That’s not right, I shouldn’t be here now.” I’m passive, each word as equal as the next that follows it.

“You didn’t finish your exams Kevin…you will be charged.” Her words nail me to my alleged crime like I’m the newest brand of criminal. I’m desperate to escape, leave the flimsy set with a sharp retaliation of words than can cut me out the shape of an exit as hastily as a wrecking ball.

Then, I hear a voice barely audible from a gender unknown, within the room.

 I can sense that I have stood up. But I’m not sure. Maybe I’m just looking down. There is some comfort injected into my heart before my visuals collapse about me like blurred shards from a metallic imagery montage.

Good Morning!