Untitled

And so he starts again, the silence punctuated by the staccato tap tap tap of the keyboard. He moves in his chair to find a comfortable pose and starts to ponder what he might write, what prose he may be able to dredge from his flaccid imagination. Prose indeed, he thinks. Another helping of scorn to add to the pile. He knows he has to start, that the act is as much a part of the outcome as the words, that until he starts he won’t know where it will go nor where it will end. Every step is a journey. No, every journey is a step. As ever he enjoys playing with naiv√© imagery and constructs, twisting and pulling …

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The untold story

Somewhere in a suburban town, in a slightly unkempt semi-detached house, a man, alone in a darkened room, sits hunched over a desk. Spot lit by the desk lamp, he is surrounded by scrunched up balls of paper, broken pencils, the debris of his ailing mind. He writes. The dark creeps in, smothering the light and blurring the edges of .. He stops and with a resigned sigh, once again drives a deep score through the words. Staring down at the page, the lines and lines of scored prose drive him further toward failure and, with the tiniest of shake of his head, he tries again. He draws the pencil across the paper, the subtle textures vibrating through his fingers, …

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Balanced

“Ying this” said Yang. His name is Maudlin. He can’t help it, he did not choose it, it was given to him. He is drawn, like a vivid butterfly daubed with life, to the dark and raging volcano. Blinded and burnt as it approaches, seared wings fizzle and disappear until nothing is left. Life dies and is swallowed. Another carcass to feed the fire. How dramatic, how fake, how very plastic. How very teenage angst. What a fool, what a coward, hiding once more. But he loves it, the dark places, the hollows with their scratched and bloody walls, the tortured souls still roaming. Echoes of his life resonate, each noise taunting and prodding, ripping at skin with tattered claws. …

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No mean city

Indestructible, the death dodging kids laugh as the bus driver rages. Shards of sunlight slice through buildings, blinding the strolling shoppers as they wander with vague purpose. A broken voice begging for change from behind dull eyes. An old man pauses to talk to the African drummer, rich timbre in shared laughter. A real connection amongst a thousand shifting eyes. The pigeon that walks but never flies, unhurried and unafraid. He knows this city from hazy dawn to blackest night, from pristine corporate headquarters to grime (crime?) soaked tenements. Through it all I walk. Surrounded by life in all it’s beautiful forms; the ravaged and unloved; the dirt and the shine, the filth and the smiles. Across broken tarmac and …

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Happily lost

The heavy staccato, the ponderous, throbbing heartbeat, pulsating through their every pore, filling them completely. They are beholden to it, quick to relinquish control, released into it, devoured, immersed, completely lost to each pulse, every melody. All around them the closed eyes of their brothers and sisters cry out, silence roars from deafened mouths as torsos twist in grotesque beauty. The air fills with animal noise, the lust flashes and fades, whilst the gentle sheen of bodies in movement, syncopated in their desires, oblivious to the world, continues to move. There is no time in this place, no walls or ceiling, the floor rendered in booming sonic waves, the smoke machines billow and bloom, false clouds ripped apart by light …

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Just write

Just write, they say. Once you get into the habit it’ll just flow, they say. It doesn’t matter what you write, just that you write, they say. They are starting to grate. They are starting to annoy and irk and leave me breathless and angry and incapable and pathetically unable to think about anything else except that I need to write but can’t start to write until my head is clear of them and no matter what I do they are in there, yakking away, spewing forth their tips, sharing the habits they’ve spent years cultivating and which they expect me to just adopt without the realisation that if I could do that I would’ve already so saying it over …

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There was a tree

It was a large tree, all leafy and green as a tree should be, standing tall and proud at the top of a small hill. On the ground beneath it spring flowers were bursting into life their vibrant colours proclaiming new beginnings, fresh growth,¬† a new season full of heady fragrances. The tree was old and wise, with countless rings and scars testament to the experience it had gained, the life it had lived. Every now and then the tree would think back, reliving each moment when it had grown a little more. It knew it was governed by nature, that it wasn’t in control, and was more than content and willing to submit to the whims of the breeze. …

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Darkness unbeing

It’s an itch, and urge, a pulling, scratching, gouging force churning away inside him. His chest is tight, knotted, formulate and plotting. Despising and demonic he plots revenge, he charts the motions and savours the instant. Brutal and vicious, he is animal. A deep breath. It refuses to move. Tensed, he is ready to pounce, his actions are driven by constriction, a rope taut around him, pulling him this way and that yet leaving him bound and motionless. Rooted here he spins it round again, and again the vitriol stirs. Where is the saviour? Is it pain, is it destruction and violation that will wreck this feeling, lay it to waste, hammerblows to his head? It spins again, fuelling itself …

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Floating on white

He shivers in the sterile air, pristine and shimmering as the last light of the day clambers over the rooftops. The yellow-pink hue setting a million and one diamonds ablaze, ice and snow twinkle in the embers of the day, crackling underfoot. Each steps snaps through the silence, echoing against brick and stone, gravel and mortar and his breath barely escapes before falling to the ground. A flare of light as a car slides past, careful on the icy road, and again he wonders why he is out tonight, why he is trudging against the biting cold. Pulling his coat tighter still he steps on. He thinks of the future, resolutions drift through his mind and he discards them wantonly. …

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Interlude

His footsteps tread heavy on this path, twigs crackle and splinter under him as he wearily walks on. He surveys the land around him, the sunlight playing through the trees as the last remnants of life wither and die in the early winter air. He has always enjoyed these walks, the solitude revealing more to him than any conversation or sound, his emotions raw and real, unfettered by implication, speak to him in a clear voice, offering a clarity he knows is false but enjoys all the same. His steady pace never falters whilst his eyes cast around catching movement in the undergrowth, a flickering shadow here, a gently bending stalk there. Tiny moments of life that continue regardless, and …

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