Tag Archives: podcast

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.

The Last Story

The stories I will write before that last one will be as prayerful as anything I have ever penned: the characters will be mild and philosophical with an even demeanour gracing my own age, like a study of butterflies at the end of their long, arduous journey.

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.

The Serious Writer and His Penis

“Only strong personalities can endure such size, the weak ones are extinguished by it”, said D., a red head with an imposing chest eyeing his cock. The serious writer, his past fogged by reckless existentialist thought, recognised the Nietzschean rudiment and smiled knowingly.

A Good Day For Small Crashes

The couple and their child carefully drive through the snow, aware of the slippery road, a black a red and a blue robin in a rolling cage. The streets are full of people exchanging presents after the holidays, gifts wanted and unwanted, surprises welcome and unwelcome.

The Serious Writer And His Hamster

The serious writer has a hamster. The hamster is dying. She drags her hindlegs and pees herself. The spirit of life is still strong in her: she climbs up the cage as she used to, then falls over to one side. Her left eye is half closed. She might have had a stroke.

Asthmatic

On August 12, I realised that my asthma was an unwillingness to take life. That I was alive nevertheless, and remained so, was, for me, one of the many paradoxes of existence, strewn across our path as unsolvable riddles, tough mind candy to chew on. I did not care for His jokes.

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.