After having published more than one hundred and fifty stories on his finely wrought and yet incorporeal blog, after having negotiated precious terms of endearment with hundreds of reading and writing strangers and after having created a virtual, almost fleshly creature more than a character but a creator of characters himself, the serious writer felt the need again to touch something real and be touched by it.
Category Archives: podcast
Rites of Spring
He noticed a short, strong white hair from his beard on his tongue and decided not to take it out but see what would happen. A moment later, a tiny bear emerged from the cave of his mouth, grabbed the hair and pulled it on his lap to play with it.
Flatulence
He was supposed to place photographs of his family, if he had them, on the desk. He was not supposed to leave a pair of handcuffs or a butt plug, if he had them, laying around on that desk.
23:46 hrs – Kiritimati, Christmas Island
The longer I lie here, listening to my still functioning electronic innards, the more afraid I grow of detonating after all this time. I don’t share your gods, but I pray I shall die a silent death.
Rose Petals
A supermodel, carrying a large Valentine’s box, fell from her considerable, prized height on the ice in front of the grocer’s and stayed down, her long, shapely legs distorted somehow.
Obituary for a Poet Heretic
When he died, people wore dark colours and said nice things about him. They played sad music, which he wouldn’t have even liked, and they had his deathmask taken which made him look limp and not like him at all.
Regret
Every time I read a great line by another writer, I feel fear, in case I might, journeying the desert, come to a hut, knock at the door and, upon seeing eye to unseeing eye with my destiny, be required to speak my mind and need that line because no other will do.
