Cherrypicked stories

She is going into space. Her suit hangs in the corner beneath her helmet, a shrivelled golem; it is waiting to eat her.

Everyone is gone. The silence in her room is louder than ever before. She can hear the dying screams echoing in the dark shadows; hitting each of the four walls like a boomerang lost in space. The ground is littered with other peoples' possessions. Their discarded memories that they have no use for anymore lay scattered; ike she does. She wears them like stale-smelling old hand me down jumpers. The walls are cold and tired of keeping her secrets hidden.

Found on the stormed beach by a walker out on his own after a Christmas lunch for one was a sand letter and three pairs of shoes which were in truth unbefitting for terrain such as this he read with interest

.

This Poem has Temporarily Removed and will be reposted August 06

I have already been perfect once, this morning: my horse's nose, my gibbon's corrugated brow, the splendid chain-mail of my reptilian neck. (A poem written for Pascale Petit's workshop on the Guardian website.)

Cover from "Horse Crazy" by Gary Indiana.

Hilarious Nigerian Scammer Story (To find out what it's all about: Visit www.bookscape.co.uk and read the absurd section) My name is Andrew. I work in a bank in North London. And you simply wouldn't believe the number of times people ask me to give them money. Not just small amounts of money either. I'm talking about entire mortgage repayments, or refinancing of companies. I've been asked on occasions if I could allow strangers access to our accounts department's records, when the building has been closed for the weekend! I understand that at least some of those enquirers have since been questioned by our local police force. But you just wouldn't believe the things that people ask you when they find out that you run a bank.

tea poem original