Thursday, 31 March 2011

Sixty Nine

We swayed to the lilting lifts of the fiddle, chugging guitars and the drone of the accordion. I think that I was the youngest in the darkened room beneath the musiciana' stage. In an evening they convinced me, without words, that it does not take planes nor trains nor any form of transportation to take a person somewhere else. I was simultaneously in a stinking pub in deep evening and a sweeping field in early afternoon. I might have been anywhere. The bar became a castle and the floor a river where fish swam between my tapping feet. I think they'd been there all along.

Sixty Eight

I'd rather be weather beaten
than smooth as ironed clean sheet,
I'd rather my blisters
came from walking too far
than from wearing high heels on my feet

and I'd rather grow old and potbellied
than have to eat watercress soup.
Yes, I'd rather live and be ugly
than stay at home and be a beaut.

Tuesday, 29 March 2011

Sixty Seven

It's always rainy in this town. I can't remember a time the sky wasn't clouded with grey. I scaled the mount to its zenith, water running on rivulets down my back. I reach my goal and...

"Are you fucking fixing the aerial or what?"


I am terribly sorry chaps and chapesses for the neglect to this particular corner of the internet, due to lack of internet access and all sorts of bits and pieces. We now return to our regular schedule.

Sunday, 13 March 2011


The dust from the explosion floated nebulously in the midnight blue of space; a compacted cloud of elements drifting in slow motion since The Event (whereby a curious disorder in the universe had caused a spontaneous cosmic combustion). From Earth, the people watched, gazing into the sky at this sudden light show.

In space, the dust drifted and the clouds parted. The light brightened and from somewhere in the universe a voice spoke, reaching earth and echoing through the ages.


The world rippled with excitement as millions ecstatically updated their twitter accounts.

Saturday, 12 March 2011

Sixty Four

The Space Turtle could not quite stomach the architectural design of the building he had been designated.

Friday, 11 March 2011

Monday, 7 March 2011


In the future, we will be able to control everything we do. We can stop ourselves from worrying, we will be able to have the relationships we always wanted. We will be able to attain our desired weight and height with the flick of a switch and shift, amoebalike, into any job of our choosing. We will be able to be artists, musicians, scientists and builders without the mental agony of worrying to switch jobs. We won't have homes - we won't need them. We'll just float on the ether and imagine our perfect worlds.

I think, though, that I'd rather be here now with my anxiety and uncertainty. I think I'd rather embrace the black fug of tomorrow and make my inevitable mistakes.

I mean, if there's one thing I want from the future, it's probably only rocketships.

Sunday, 6 March 2011

Fifty Nine: Fisherman's Lament Pt. 3

(Unfortunately I just drew picture number 59 out in photoshop and apparently deleted it without saving. Perhaps there will be two stories tomorrow, or maybe I'll just make this one exceedingly good. Either way I do apologise.

The moral of the story is to make sure you get enough sleep, kids.) 

(This is a placeholder for a picture from a computer that's currently dead. I don't like that I've not updated it, but, well, you'll just have to wait to see the ending!)

Fifty Eight: Fisherman's Lament Pt. 2

Friday, 4 March 2011

Fifty Seven

Farmer Eustace tugged the rim of his straw hat as he knelt on the cold, barren ground. He tutted dimly, shaking his head from side to side as he looked up and down the empty field. There should be sprouts by now: green tufts rising triumphantly from the soil into the open air. But there was nothing.

With haggard hands he scrabbled at the soil, poking his fingers into the mulch to discern the seeds below. He grabbed something compact and rounded and pulled it out, teasing it between his fingers.

It was as he suspected.

Cat biscuits.

Thursday, 3 March 2011

Fifty Six

He was a man wrapped in an enigma, wrapped inside a mystery, shrouded in doubt and covered in a honeyed glaze before being encased in a fortress of solitude atop a lofty peak.

He still managed to make it out to the weekly poker game though, which is more than could be said to Steve.

Wednesday, 2 March 2011

Fifty Five

There’s a house and it’s a squalid mess: can you picture this scene? An assortment of bits and pieces strewn over what may or not be a floor. I’m not sure, it’s too carpeted with dead batteries and burnt out pens to tell. Later, it would transpire that this was the Schrodinger’s cat of floors: neither here nor there until somebody got rid of all the rubbish.

Anyway, needless to say, this is a proper messy house. It’s a proper messy house and in amongst all the proper mess is an improper little madam, surrounded on all sides by towering cardboard, newspapers and junk mail. It’s like she’s been there for a hundred years and all the rubbish has built up around her. She sits and tappa tappa types on her keyboard.

(Incidentally, tappa tappa typing on your keyboard for years at a time is an excellent way to erase your fingerprints).

And maybe it’s a careless nudge or a wild animal, but either way the tower of newspapers topples over. She jumps; sliding back on a stray Duracell and knocking over the desk, setting off a Heath Robinson contraption of motion. A stray pen flies into a precariously balanced toy car, which rolls down a pile of books and into a bottle of exceptionally old Evian. Which tips, spilling into a cold cup of tea that overflows down the sideboard to the running toaster on the floor. Which sparks, sets alight and thankfully only burns the closed manmade curtains to a crisp, the lethargic (but quick thinking) girl having summarily smothered the blaze in a damp towel she had to hand.

Through the smouldering smoke and her coughing she stops, bewildered. She sees, for the first time in a long time, the light outside.