An old man awakes,
Alone and weary.
And he rubs at his eyes,
Which are all too bleary.

The shop is still closed,
So he goes for a walk.
And he stops for a while,
Under the town hall clock.

How he wants to be dead,
To be rid of this life.
Which contains lots of pain;
Heartache and strife.

But then he remembers,
And he almost smiles.
His children haven’t been round,
In too long a while.

So he picks up his paper,
And trundles on home.
And when he gets in,
He picks up the phone.

He tries to dial his son,
But the phone is too old.
His fingers are hurting,
As arthritis takes hold.

So he’s back at square one,
And the sadness sets in.
So he goes back to bed,
But can’t sleep through the din.

The noise is so deafening,
So he bangs on the wall.
His neighbours are busy,
Redecorating their hall.

They can’t hear his cries,
As he tells them to stop.
So he goes to the door,
But there receives a shock.

A pain in his chest,
A tightness, a gripping.
He grabs the door handle,
But it won’t stop him tripping.

He falls to the floor,
Wheezing and gasping.
His neighbours do not hear him,
Such is their drill’s shrill rasping.



A woollen scarf hung over a bedpost.
It’s green and it’s yours.
You haven’t worn it for a long time.
It makes you remember the past.
You don’t want to.
It hurts too much.
You can’t listen to the songs you used to,
And certain smells make you want to cry.
You want to get rid of everything,
Everything that makes you remember.
Nostalgia is a big thing for you.
It governs your thoughts.
Memories make you wince.
Some make you smile.
Most make you sad.
It’s not easy being you,
But what alternative is there?

The beach burns blue,
Waves of longing tangible feeling.
A bitter taste on the tongue,
With a dull humming at the touch.

Why can I see what I hear?
And feel what I see?
The words have colour,
As do the sounds.

The letter B a great flaming yellow,
The letter Q a crackling giant.
This isn’t normal,
This confusion of the senses.

I Would

I’d tell you my day,
And everything that happened.
And we’d stay up talking,
Until the world darkened.

I’d tell you about Roygbiv,
And the way it made me feel.
And you’d tell me your thoughts,
While you listened to Seal.

I’d read just before bed,
And you’d turn off the light.
And we’d lay in the darkness,
Glad of the respite.

I’d wake up at times,
Jolted by dreams.
My favourite childhood teddy,
Had split at the seams.

I’d remember I’m old,
And we’d laugh and confide.
But each time that happened,
I’d die a bit inside.

I’d get up quite late,
And I’d put on my coat.
But in the pocket one day,
Was your suicide note.

Dark, damp, cold. I can feel my breath freeze as it hits the air. What happened? What’s that noise?

Oh my God they’re dead, all dead. Impact, metal scraping on metal. Something hit us. Something big. Those bastard kids and their fake call. Injured hiker. No one was up there. No one at all. Crazy to hike here this time of year. We came back. Last call of my shift. Something hit us. There’s a rock beside the helicopter. There are no other rocks around here. Where did it come from? Avalanche sent it towards us? Ridiculous. We were too high up. Maybe the kids went too far. How could they manage that? They couldn’t. Something threw that rock at us. I nearly broke my neck from the whiplash. We were happy. Angry that they had us on but happy. Happy no hiker was injured, happy we were on our way – BANG! We got hit out the sky.

I saw this cabin. I went to it to find warmth and a working radio. It’s abandoned. No radio. What’s that smell?

What’s that noise? An animal? There are no animals up here. I can hear something. Maybe Jase and Calvin are still alive. I have to look. I scream. What the hell is that thing? It’s big. Huge. I can only see part of it. It’s white, but dirty white. An ape? No it’s way too big. It’s bigger than the helicopter. And the smell. I think I might be sick. The smell of something putrid; something dead. Oh my God what is it? The sound it makes. A gurgling sound. It’s definitely not an ape. Apelike. Humanlike – oh fuck it looked at the cabin when I screamed. At least I thought I screamed. I hope it was just a croak. Quiet quiet quiet. I’m so scared. It’s so cold I can’t run from it. Whatever it is it’s native. It would catch me. Just have to stay quiet. Its focus is on the helicopter again. It moves it and lifts it slightly, as a child might, curiosity causing excitement that fills me with dread. It’s looking for food.

Maybe I can quietly sneak away. There should be another cabin further down the mountain I can reach if I’m quiet. But I’m not equipped to survive in this weather. I need to get to the helicopter and send out a flare or see if I can get the radio working. Fire would keep me warm. OK – plan. I’ll wait until it gets fed up. It’s bound to get what it’s looking for and leave. I put my fingers on my gun belt and think twice. Whatever that is, it’ll take more than a six-shooter to bring it down. It lifted that boulder. How strong is that thing? It’s just big. Real big. Wait… it’s stopped. It’s found something. Oh my God it lifted the helicopter; flipped it right over like it didn’t weigh anything. That can’t be any animal that I’ve ever heard of. Yeah I’ve heard of myths – the abominable snowman and all that but there’s never been any conclusive evidence. People just laugh it off as an urban legend. No time to think about what it could be. I’ve just got to get to safety. I think it’s found Jase’s body.

Right this is my chance. I run out. I head in the opposite direction from the helicopter, down the mountain. I don’t get very far. I reach some trees and hide behind them. It saw me. It’s coming this way. Jase’s limp body is hanging from its hand. Its claw. I’ve got to get to the helicopter. Maybe I can draw it away from there than somehow make it back. I search for a loose rock. Found one. I aim for a tree further down the mountain and throw it as hard as I can. Even over the din of the wind it still makes enough noise for the thing to hear it. It runs down the mountain with great strides. I can feel every time its foot lands. Thud. Thud. Thud. When it’s past me I run back to the helicopter and try and get inside. It’s badly damaged but I can get in. The fire’s dying down now but it provides some warmth.

“This is base camp. Come in Red Robin.”

It works. Why didn’t I check it when we crashed? I could have had a chopper en route by this time. Idiot. I’m out of the woods now.

I smell the thing before I can respond on the radio and I know it’s over. Blood hits the snow below me as I’m lifted up. It pulls at me and I can feel my skin tearing and bones stretching as my arms drops to the ground below me; steaming in the coldness and the blood pours freely over the snow. I scream before the snowman, with me in one claw and Jase in the other, walks off to whatever hell it calls to home to consume us, its prize. I watch the helicopter through hazy eyes as we get further away from it. The flames are dying right down now and darkness takes me as I curse the kids who caused this whole mess.

So you want to know what I do. Well I’ll tell you a story. It happened the other week. It’s a short story, but still as depressing as some of the other stuff I’ve seen in my career. You might want to refresh your drink.

It was dark. It was cold too. A whole night outside would have killed a man. The snow created a pretty contrast to the harshness of the cold, a nice effect that would almost make us not dread winter. But we still do.

A gunshot sounded off far away, showing me that even in the harshest of conditions, people still need to work. Now, you can either be a criminal, or you can be anything else. There’s only a small fine line between the two you know. So I stay as close to it as possible. Anyway, the gunshot interrupted the quiet night where the only sound was the whispering wind, slowly intruding into any gap in my clothing, looking to chill the warmth. I was looking for someone. I’d been paid. I should’ve said no because of this damn cold but a guy has to eat. I didn’t know what this person looked like. I just knew her name. My client wanted me to deliver a message to her. My client said to get to her by any means possible. I didn’t ask any further questions. I’ve been charged to deliver a message. I check my gun is still there; bumping against my ribs. I didn’t even think my fingers could have managed to keep it level, let alone pull the trigger, such was the cold. It just provides me with a feeling of security.

This girl was said to be a prostitute. I’m not one to judge. People have to make a living in this piece of shit town. People have to survive. I’m lucky I landed a job as an investigator. The missing people, the murders, the kidnappings, the rape, the drugs; all my fields of work. In all the many ways I hate this city, I’m also grateful I’ve always got work. Well, almost grateful. I can’t say I hope for a paedophile to take a kid so I can justify putting a bullet in his head. We do what we must and move on. You know what I’m talking about. Hell your kind isn’t much better. You make money from despair and crime. But, like I said, I don’t judge.

Long story short, I reached the spot where the prostitutes usually were, waiting to offer their services to theatre goers and drunks. I asked around about the girl. “She’s in that alley there boss,” one of them said to me. “I’ll show you if you want?” I declined the offer and had a look for her.

I walked into the alley and saw her lying there, all swollen and beaten and pregnant and dead. It was a sad sight. She had two knife-holes in her stomach – two holes that had been put through a small bump. Her hair was wet with blood and melted snow and it glistened woefully in the suffocated streetlight. I looked on her for a moment, long enough to notice that she looked to be roughly fifteen or sixteen. I lit a cigarette and thanked some higher power for the small warmth it offered me. I thought about going back to inform my client of the news. But I did what I’d been paid to do; I got the job done. I told April that her mother missed her.

Hello. I’m uploading some new material shortly for anyone to read,

Thanks to the great Mr Hank Moody from Californication, I’m currently listening to Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks.  Yeah yeah so I recently just got into him big fucking deal.  I can imagine all those die-hard Dylan fans quaking at the thought of a newcomer coming along and calling themselves a fan.  By no means, would I call myself a fan.  I merely just want to listen to some heartbreak on this particular Saturday night.  I could quote a Cat Stevens song at this moment but I choose not too.  For one, I doubt my pain is as bad as Stevens’ was at the point when he wrote the song.  My heart bleeds.  Two, wouldn’t it be so incredibly distasteful to do that?  I mean, I’m sure everyone knows what I’m talking about and those that don’t, well, I suggest you google Cat Stevens and get a fucking education.

Anyway, point is, Sir Bobby’s made me want to write something tonight, even if that is a sketchy telling of time spent listening to him.  What’s important is that I’m completely baked so my puncuation is abysmall and my grammer worse.

But I’m writing.  What have you done lately?


I love that word so much.  Noir.  Iooks especially good in lower caps with a full stop after it.  noir.  Fantastic.

I recently been delving into the depths of the noir thrillers and hard-boiled detectives.  It’s amazing stuff.  The pulp fiction books that I never knew existed but now that I do, I can’t look back.  This is my calling.

I’m putting up a small excerpt of my hard-boiled short story about my homosexual detective.  Niche?  I hope so.

This is a work in progress for my portfolio so please don’t judge too harshly.  I only wrote it yesterday and haven’t redrafted it yet.  Anyway, I’m quite happy with it so far.


Day two since my world fell apart.  I’ve lost someone, someone close; important.  Every corner, the trail went cold.  Every contact had a slightly different story than the other; talking through their hats.  No matter.  Not that I cared.  I do things on my own.  Who can you trust?  The world’s full of forked-tongues.  I know that; better than most.  You got a problem, just deal with it and move on.  If you have to know something, you best be ready to find out yourself.  I have a problem.  Is it really my problem?  Does it really matter?  What good can I do?  All of the above: who knows?  Do I give a fuck and am I prepared to do something about it: yes.

            David.  David was the one I could trust.  Now he’s gone.  Leaving only a half smoked cigarette and a post-it note: I’VE GOT TO LEAVE.  THEY FOUND ME.  LOVE.  Left it on my telephone he did.  Strange place to put it?  Not really.  David knew I’d want to know where he went.  My hunch was that he didn’t really want to leave.  That much is obvious in the note.  The telephone was my first clue.  He knows I’m smart.  I deduce.  To counteract the chance that my place gets tossed by pigs at some point, and the note gets found, he put it on the phone.  Smart boy.  He called somewhere before he went.  But who?  I hesitated in pressing redial.  I knew he wanted me to do it.  I called.

            Dennis West; my first contact.  David trusted him.  I didn’t.  Guy has a face you’d want to put a brick through; stand on his head for good measure.  He had a sly smirk to go with it.  Dennis didn’t have shit for me.  Either he wasn’t as good a friend as David had first thought or he’s scared and hiding something.  In any case, I wouldn’t get dirt from the gee so I hung up and punched the wall.  Dennis didn’t want to go into what he knew.  He downright avoided it and got aggressive.  Why was he so scared?  I knew he didn’t like me much, and I him. Still, David was a good friend to him and I know he told him something about it before he left.  If talking on the phone isn’t his cup of tea I might just have to pay the daisy a visit and go to work on him.

            That night I went round the bars where David hung out.  No one knew anything.  They suggested calling the police.  I said I’d do it in the morning, to keep them from doing it.  I don’t want the police in on this.  They’d be all over me; what did I know, did he have any enemies, any relatives I know of.  I could do a better job than they could.  I know people.  I don’t like people, but I know a fair few.  I’ve got my finger in most of the cliques that go about.  Word gets around these places fast.  I hit them all up.  I found nothing I could go one.  Closed door after closed door.


Well sort of.

 I’ve been feeling more optimistic recently.  I guess I’ve been sorting more things out in my life and not being such a moody bastard.  I’m leaving uni, possibly next week so that should help with things.  Also I had a train journey today and that always perks me up.  I have no idea why; I hate travelling.

Anyway, this will be another really short post because I don’t have the time to essay it up like I did before.

I leave you now in a better mood.  Watch this space.

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