Cherrypicked stories
Yellow
Yellow, Ralph and I are yellow; not the strip-light yellow of past mistakes, but early morning yellow, crisp and true. My son and I are green, spring leaf green; so I knew, even before he started talking that we would never stop. My daughter and I are blue, cornflower blue, I bite my tongue and wonder if we will ever become friends. My sister and I are indigo; the less said about that the better.
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- 1865 reads
The Memory Room
Thesedays, I appreciate jumble sales for what they are to me and many others I've discovered. Jumble sales are memory graveyards. In and amongst the surface junk, every sale has items that come engulfed in the memory of something now gone. Whilst we never seek to forget our best memories, our difficult ones try to ensure we never forget them. They tie us to places, sounds, words and objects like a dog to a lead.
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- 546 reads
A Tale of Teachers in Inverted Commas
The Kingdom of Thailand: an exotic land filled with beautiful smiling people and also filled with English language teachers.
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- 1320 reads
Lee Lou Lai
Complete reworking of my Leelu poem, with the spelling of the cat's name corrected. A Lai is something like aabaabaab stanzas, with the b line shorter than the a. Oh yeah, and the start makes more sense if you read 'Thoughts of Evilcat' first.
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- 1318 reads
Death waits
I stared into the black night water running down the window pane distorting the image of me Waiting with the dark rain knowing without being told, the truth death waited for me Every drop should have been a tear
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- 688 reads
Obeahman
Obeahman He watched the long shaft of sunlight fall across the room like a Zulu's spear. The noise of the hut coming to life pulled his mind fully from the mystical embrace of slumber and lazily he swung his legs out of the bed. He listened a while to the strident tones of his wife ordering her children around. 'Man caint git no peace,' he muttered to himself peevishly.
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- 626 reads
Don't Drug Me
I didn't want to be drugged. I wanted to be able to think. He wasn't going to let me.
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- 1112 reads
18. The Night Before The Morning After...
So¦ Christmas Eve at the pub¦ ¦heaving like a blouser's bed-springs on pay-night at a poontang palace in Perth. So many people that you couldn't see the gaps between. Smoke. Booze. Heat. Sweat. Lights. Noise. The craic going at 140 beats-a-minute. Hieronymous Bosch on benzedrine. Beautiful!
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- 1055 reads
Cooking with tripe
It was late on a Saturday night in August and I wanted to drink
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- 946 reads
Woman in a white coat.
No-one I knew.
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- 2016 reads
Ramekin
A speed poem using the word ramekin
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- 1296 reads
Playing Piano - edited version
A reworking of an old story. Beware, it is 3,800 words long.
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- 1071 reads
Of Fish and Water
I catch myself in a yawn on the elevator down to the ground floor of my dormitory. I woke up this morning laying on the floor, holding a pack of fruit gushers, and wearing my room mates underwear. That's your basic college blackout. Everyone else here is looking for the same thing; a release from the academic pressure. With my newly showered body and groggy demeanor I would have fit right in a few hours ago. I say a few hours ago, because right at the moment it's about half past one. There's an English class I'm supposed to be in haste to attend but I have a little cloud named hangover floating above me.
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- 956 reads
Parah Adumah
In the fields the red heifer hangs her dour head.
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- 1873 reads
Virginia Woolf
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vita_Sackville-West
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- 1 comment
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- 2122 reads
Bad Hunch
You have been hit by a bus again.
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- 1042 reads
Ink
The ink flows down my page, my parchment, my vellum.
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- 918 reads