Category Archives: creative writing

The Last Moon on the Left (excerpt)

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The bizarre kettle-shaped spaceship, suddenly turns off its powerful engine of raging bubbles. Now, both young boys listen intensly, to the slow, muted, thud of footsteps… from the creepy bottom step… to the agonisingly close and creaky top step of the stairs.

But it’s soon after those footsteps stop, after the deathly silence they create, when something that sounds as light as a balloon, and travelling in the unnatural breeze of the night; bumps innocently light, then mysteriously heavier (again and again) onto the exposed floorboards of the landing.

Luke (the younger ) suddenly remembers that in the most recent past, he had found ‘the landing’ very confusing, because nothing that he was aware of… until now, had ever landed there.

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Exit, Entrance to Exit

The whites of her eyes trembled like approaching dual headlights in heat-haze.

Each pinkly foot all a blur; cradled loosely by a pair of slip on cups; adjoined by two nonsynchronous shotguns; lock and loading; firing her across the nightclubs remix of slip and adhesion.

Her slight outline; disappearing/reappearing; a visual offbeat to the paparazzi furore that follow her with discord; some giddy travel through extra-terrestrial lights of seizure.

To a close country border,

Fire doors! she cried, unlikely to be heard… or in thought.

Now here is the swing and hinged odds; potholed by scattered youth with inebriated limbs; blotted by dazed fireflies that danced in the smokes.

Surrendering to official air, the same air that blows your sweat gently across your neck into deltas on your chest, only reminiscent… to be felt.

When gravity falters, this Mother Earth is momentarily off her axis.

Her daughter follows one snaking line of shy neon; in and out of sight, forever smaller, staccato, in black, can paranoid be the night?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chile Peru (An Alcoholic Ghost Story)

Chilli pepper with glass of alcoholic drink

 

“I’m Chile Peru,” said the woman keenly.

“That’s an interesting name,” replied the man, he didn’t want to take his eyes off his full whiskey glass; buried snug in the folds of his palm.

“It’s a great name!”  she replied, and as she did, all her facial features seemed to slide magnetically to the centre of her crimsoning face; she leaned into his right shoulder, breathing her distinct breath into his ear.

“Thanks, but I’m not here to have a conversation, and I don’t recall asking you… for your name that is.” He stared ahead blankly, continuing to drench the inside of his mouth with alcohol, unsubmissive to his breached personal space.

“Thanks and all that, and yes… you didn’t ask! But considering I already know yours – I just wanted you to hear my name,” she whispered, “my name will probably kill you.” she trailed off her speech as if talking to a good, little, attentive child.

“Ok, Chile, so…this is the scene where I’m supposed to think you’re clearly insane, maybe… consider walking out, without finishing my drink?”

“No silly, this is the scene after that…You’ve already thought about leaving; that happened as soon as I introduced myself. You’re not unnerved, you’re furious because I’ve ruined your usual evening… alone, at the bar. You’ll remain in your fury no doubt, until you enter your drab little studio flat; there you’ll remember only one thing, my name… ‘Chile Peru’, there you’ll rot, your mind will be in freefall; likely to die – very soon, after you slam your front door shut!”

“Wow, Chile… I gotta say that’s a cheerful little story you have there…You really know how to sound like a psychopath – well done to you, you have succeeded! And all this insanity directed at me, a complete stranger, I’m blushing.”

Then, he glanced at her for the first and only time while sliding off his bar stool as gracefully as a soft rubber mould of himself. Leaving his whiskey sour at the bar (just as she predicted), he walked uneasily to the door; the handle of which seemed to duplicate itself on reach, it turn stubbornly when he grasped it; twisting it anti-clockwise, before obliging him with actually opening the door, and the sharp chill of an autumn nights air.

He stumbled in his haze passed the widescreen window; like hundreds of thousands of replicas did, day in day out. He did not look inside, but if he had, he’d had noticed that Chile Peru hadn’t moved; her posture was as stiff as if she were sucking on the last remnants’ of his soul that remained at the bar.

Before her final swig of his drink, she whispered bitterly, “Have a lovely evening, Vinnie.” and then proceeded to neck the remainder of his drink, at which point the chairs were being stacked purposefully on the tables; and by the only person that had overheard their conversation.

 

 

I’m Not Bitter But…

While some of us are thinking about it, some are actually doing it, and those who are doing it are usually telling me all about it. By all accounts, there great at it too! And feeling greater about it, every… single… day!

Honestly, I’m over the moon for you, I truly am… warms my cockles… no end. But, In my thinking… and trust me I’ve had the time too (about what it is you’re great at doing), I have got to say, that I’ve decided I would be so much… much, better than you! Even if I wanted to do it, but I don’t even need to, (I’m actually laughing in my mind), I haven’t even thought to try it… unbelievable!

So, just in case you’re thinking about telling me all about it… again! Don’t bother because I won’t be listening from now on, I’ll just be… thinking about… me! Maybe not trying it, deciding not to do it… again!

Thanks for listening.

Sky Dependency Unit

 

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Daryl hadn’t seen a full open sky for nine, whole, working years; un-retractable visors had been fixed above his eyes to protect them from the elements, to focus his attention on his work. His perfectly symmetrical, amber, tear-shaped eye-slots were unable to look up; limiting him to sporadic glimpses of a pixelated horizon.

It seemed that the sun set and rose perpetually, kaleidoscopic in their beauty but increasingly cruel to Daryl (something incomprehensible to human thought).

Over the recent days, gradually Daryl felt oddly distant, and a coldness had bred; invading his core, it was like he was viewing himself slipping away, into ever-more denser, industrialised fog.  He felt his visors would soon be taken off him, only to be fixed upon another; his younger brother.

Seemingly, his hardship was nobody’s fault, just the way things were, part of growing up as a simulacrum; in a brutal, un-empathising, nonsensical world.

By his calculations, he would free in hours, to take in as much sky as he had desperately yearned for — only that moment never arrived, because he broke down that very moment his visors were to be removed. He was left in numerical order amongst faulty prototypes, lying against his predecessor, in a stuffy, dark, windowless room; to desperatly decay without burial or ceremony, to be replaced by a newer and more advanced unit.

One of Daryl’s amber eye-slots still inexplicably flickers in the otherwise overwhelming blackness; momentarily revealing some evidence of limp limbs that filled the room poorly.

Visors were never to be fixed upon his brother…

 

Firesky!

At an aggressive speed

I was losing my way

I was feeling so alive

Seeing what could never be

The atmosphere burned red

And so I thought of what will be

…from now on

I noticed then what I never see

Chrome slithering roads and bloodied sky

With all moistures weeping in blue

Rolling, cruising, endless

On and over flattening mountains

This is what I’m telling you

Those slow buildings in green

I’ve finally found out what I almost lost

And sensed what I had never seen

All around while dissolving out

Through and into the Firesky!

 

 

 

The Evil Wallpaper and the Stuffy Room

I cannot speak in this room, my tongue is sewn to my inner mouth like an old rolled up, tatty, old gym mat, left tied in a locked and forgotten storage room.  I am now reduced to a baby regarding my quality of speech, no-one, not even myself will understand my dialect now.

Subsequently, my eyes are like CCTV cameras, tirelessly scanning people I will never know. Such resources require feeding before I again starve myself from predictable individual markets of specialised code. Right now I do not want to buy into anything, other than some much need for some personal inanimate objects, or Mother Nature’s pleasantries.

Then, surprisingly, a section of room clears, I notice someone familiar to me; they sit directly opposite as if waiting in a crowded underground station for a train that will never arrive.

Immediately, faces and limbs move blurrily around them like a meaty aura, descaling time, they somehow cut a somewhat dominant figure with a slouching posture; sitting in an otherwise frenetic sequence of scribbled picture flick images.

All the while, a hideous wallpaper pastes the background; unnaturally large and repetitive design of supposedly beautiful coloured flowers. Seemingly this Rorschach of entangled petals also emits a pungent scent from hells garden, choking our airways ever so slowly. Or, a ladies offensive perfume that loiters excessively as she struts passed on death-defying stilts with a cocktail.

Slowly the wallpapers flowers grow, entwine and weave, swallowing all that stands near it, suffocating the lost and forgotten drones that are top-heavy while on the edge of walls made from verbalised, exhaled breath; an endless wordy fever swells the room into sickness.

Then a sudden refreshingly pure breeze blows playfully, it caresses my moist cheek, my unacquainted companion acknowledges the very same, welcomed oxygen.  As I raise my right hand to my drying face, I notice at precisely the same moment they do the very same, it is as unnerving as it is welcoming.

It is then we leave the room together.

 

Slightly Derelict House

The half-life – existing in Ordinary Street.  In a home that’s regressing, decaying at your own apprehensive feet. The curtains, undrawn, mournful in unique shades of burnt. I continuously prolong to stand; outside, be curious, where nothing can be learnt.

All that remains is allergic and weathered, bleached by an encompassing light, a colourless nothing fading from every passers sight. The welcome gate has long since gone, dissolved by powers of apathy, crumbling everything, no longer strong.

Carried on a gust, is a child’s drawing of their favourite haunted house, daring you to walk up the path like that famous miming mouse.  Someone is sealed inside their novelty box. Merely do they exist, inert, in one of their cellblocks.

This was this once the warmest family home. Mum and dad, the kids, each sitting on their styled floral throne, around the television like decent and normal folk, laughing like gas leaks at dad’s latest bad joke.

If you care too much now, then you are very strange. You can’t spare the spare time and so creeps something random, unimportant, and you’ll be fine, so walk on regardless in your very British sunshine.