Category Archives: creative writing

The Indestructable Toy

creative writing, Memories, Uncategorised, , , ,

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Infuriatingly Indestructable, and at that point of my childhood (back In the 80’s) when a little destruction would do me fine. I was convinced that this truck was not a toy, but more — a test!

Somehow, forged with alien metals, this orange dump trucks’ durability bore an unforunate resemblance to that of a black box flight recorder (how can it endure such incomprehensible abrasion?). Maybe, just maybe, I’ve been living as a slow aeroplane ever since; having the good sense not to allow myself to crash, all the while i’m harbouring a toy (Yes, I don’t really need an object such as this in my daily life) but realistically knowing there is a possibility of engine failure (but il keep it anyway, because i dare not forget my nice, average boyhood).

As my nostalgic tendencies continue to serve me, Is this innocent truck a stark reminder of how fragile (It still has no dents) my adulthood can be, and in the future: will very likely be, if i’m ever so lucky to be so old that i can only remember the distant past (the black box is no longer black, but now, also orange in its colour).

Today, I Buried the Car

creative writing, Flash Fiction, short stories, , , , , , ,

Today, I buried the car under the garden, or enterrer la voiture sous la Jardin; it makes no difference to me. As I sit on its corroded roof of raised ochre paint and brushed steel. By coincidence, I sit at sea level to distant oceans that are full of old weather and distress.

I know there is never a sea that’s forever as level as this laid lawn, and so I recall, on purpose I left the engine running. So it is that I’m repeated to fade as time delays the dream in which I sit, statuesque, waiting on my cars dented roof, for something to erase what I didn’t mean.

Then, suddenly the car drives through the soil, searching for oil. I’m destined to travel with it. With consummate ease, I’m driven forwards, for I assume that is where I face, and above an underground road, with all speediest motion of the most stubborn small hand of a basic clock, through terrain as varied as the subconscious memories of the recent dead.

My progress never slows until I discover the edge of this world dissolving like an old cake from age, churned from its constant turning. Now I’ve slipped into another world, of some sense. As I arrive, seamlessly through a subtle zipped window, I’m suddenly driving through dull traffic, so dense; with the clumsy authority of a process mounted car on set. I’m steering the wheel, it’s looser than I imagined, it’s no use, and the scenery is a little disjointed from the direction I steer in. Maybe the next world will find me before I find it! Or before I find the brakes.

The Hexagon-Shaped-Phone

creative writing, Flash Fiction, , , ,

Recently, I’ve been spoken to: on a hexagon-shaped-phone. The voice was more in the phone than on it. The voice told me; real soft, that if they had to call me again, just one more time, they would tell me, most vehemently, of how much I’ve fucked up!

Then, by continuously fluffing my pillows with extinct feathers; that I had done so for the last time.

The voice then whispered for dramatic effect; saying that I had left them no choice but to – And at that moment I panicked, so I cut the voice off and have been waiting by the phone ever since!

Untitled Morning

creative writing, Flash Fiction, poetry, , ,

I awake from sensitive sleep. I’m out of tune to the bed-sheet; like magnet

against a magnet, not yet fully formed to be part of this new day.

My right hand is a cutout, a hole; in shape of a hand on the edge of

substance.

I attempt to grab for my duvet, but my hand sinks through it; as if softer.

Then, like warm sands engulfing cold, ancestral rock, my hand slowly returns to

me, as I watch it closely re-generate; appreciation of owner-ship is fulfilled,

and it proceeds to move by my own accord; to turn off the irritating alarm!

The Water’s Edge

creative writing, Flash Fiction, poetry, , , , ,

As I walked down to the water’s edge I knelt and plunged my right hand in,

increasing the rivers density, I watched my hand dance until I thought the river may

run dry, that my hand may never return to me.

I was wrong, my hand soon returned and it hurt like hell.

Then the river dissipated, cruelly, as I was now struggling to comprehend

dying among the scorching sand-dunes.

Clockwork Waterfall

creative writing, Flash Fiction, poetry, , , , , ,

So we decided to drive up the waterfall, but the waterfall was redundant and

dry. While travelling vertically; the impossible was performed with ease, I

couldn’t help but wear a fixed smile until arriving at its crest.

Then a tarn with tranquil water, slick and so pure with

elaborately carved structures floating: some were peacefully rotating.

I noticed they were broken, perhaps abandoned before completion. It was at

that moment  I had forgotten why we… but more now I, was there at all.

Somehow without trying, I walked forwards, sure-footed: leaving behind what

had vanished behind me.

Now everything was much closer, and silent, with timely rushes of air, pressed

intermittently at my cheek; forced gently by numerous random walls from

what were now replica houses made from wood.

Clocklike and clockwise, suddenly in the far distance I see faceless builders as

undisturbed artists that do not seem to care, and the placid water

nearby does not respond to the continuous stirring upon it. The half buildings

have reversed the effects of time, and suddenly I must go… where? I do not

know.