Tag Archives: Fantasy

Clockwork Waterfall

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


Psychedelic Leopard Spots

The fact that I have just seen a minuscule leopard; no bigger than my thumb; nonchalantly roaming between the taller blades of grass in my front garden was not as surprising as I would’ve first imagined.

Then I notice a tiny family of three; lying down not so far away from the minuscule leopard; the baby is twice the size of its assumed parents and the Leopard. Somehow I overlook this irregularity in scale and look away, determined to see what else that I can find that defeats logic. Inevitably, they all vanish before I look back on my search for absolute confirmation.

Feeling aggrieved, I sense that I’m being watched — but still I scan the garden; my mannerisms acquire some semblance of pretense loss, as all I see now is scattered autumnal leaves. Within a matter of moments I disregard the miniature marvels; I smile, subtly, as I come to the conclusion that I’m very temporarily insane.

I continue to walk to the gate and plan my route to work as usual.

Room Service


Jon White was alone in his bed sleeping; his only support was his new memory foamed mattress. At 3.05 he awoke with urgency, needing the bathroom.  He hadn’t yet seen, encountered, the heart pulsating shock, which was; the dark figure standing, facing the opposing wall.

A totem in the blackness, she stood in the centre of the room; silent, motionless with no acknowledgement of her surroundings. Jon’s only thought was for the sweet blessed relief he would feel in the bathroom.

He grabbed his duvet and purposefully flung it away from his tepid body. Now, exposed to the arctic impression of the bedroom, the atmosphere in the room sent Jon’s skin temperature to plummet; tightening around his bony adolescent frame like an invasion. With his skin no longer flexible and encasing, Jon not only felt the harsh cold but increasingly ill, only once before had he felt this sick; when he was witness to his father’s death.

Shock of a Fairground Fire

I could just make out the rotating horses, hear them; braying in the fire, leaping above an abusive smoke.

It seemed that despite the ever loosening grip on their painted reigns, the deafening funfair did not cease to roar upon it, with hellish flames.

Accompanied then by sounds of yesterday’s children, I witnessed the horses escape to the fields of evergreen.

I and them, together, they then turned and shared my shock of a fairground fire; hungry for what remained of their vintage carousel.

The Caretakers Moon


On a moon coloured in pastel by Martian gods, is a shed with a caretaker as secretly ancient as he his obvious in youth.

With every rotation of his moon, he leaves his shed to stand in perfect black shadow, precisely the same time as a series of planetary alignments allow a galactic causeway showing him his journey from where he once came.

The Caretakers causeway; interrupted by comets as they so travel, rolling silently at their own individual speeds. He recognises the subtle differences within their empowering thunder; with giving each broken star his full, undivided attention, they speak of their magnificent beginnings.

The continuous comets with their immeasurable tails sweep up the remains of lost satellites, so crude in their making, harbouring evidence that nothing ever happens like the scientists say (but some are closer than they think!).

The Caretaker, having lost his home in such unexplainable circumstances, he then transmits his sorrow through dark space matter to create positive universes.

Over, around, between and through time The Caretaker regenerates, flesh to matter, it is then he stares at a cluster of irregular stars as they near. Suddenly he is with his predecessors; a vanguard that smothers the entire surface of the moon with their vaccine.  Linking themselves together by heads they spin cycle the moon into a devastating and most wondrous nebula.

Meanwhile, on a quieter side of an opposing Moon, is another shed entrance that shares the reflection of everything, in times past, present and future. One message clearly resides by every communication possible, ‘Please take care!’

It is then, out of the shadows of planets, a new caretaker makes his way.



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.’

Dream Sequence (Return To Form)

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 poorrecentattendance.” 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!

The Party’s Over

At the slicing of the cake, Biff stealthily took shape as a hunting feline and inhaled all the helium that his lungs could muster.

Standing back, he felt repelled by the deafening scenes of frenetic gluttony. He opened his well-rested mouth to release some verbal pressure that impounded in his head.

The sound of his very first syllable caused the surrounding windows to shatter into thousands of shark-like teeth. Consequently, an almighty vacuum of air sucked him out of the house as if he were suddenly grabbed by a colossal hand. Up, up into the gaping void of turquoise sky he floated.

As he rose into the sky with his elation from escape, he could hear the sweet slow fade of lung-bursting screams; expelled from the children’s unending hellish choir in the house below him.

Wailing from their distress of flaccid balloons and exploding glass, Biff had gone too far this time; he floated higher than he had foreseen, Biff froze as hypothermia set his body.

His helium had long expired, he plummeted towards terra firma at over a hundred miles an hour and landed face up on the lawn of a children’s garden tea party. With Biff’s brains and guts having covered the sweet treats; a limp balloon remained frozen stuck to his hand, with two frosted words, Happy Birthday!

When the children screamed, Biff lay with a magnificent smile.