Dissolution

The threads bend back on themselves, sweeping through time, dipping into tiny pockets of experience and breathing out again into the emptiness. The artist whose threads they are and whose speck of life has held them together asks the scientist ‘What is this?’ and ‘Where is it going?’ But the scientist keeps her counsel. Tugging on theoretical principle and marshalling empirical evidence, she is silent. It will come right, there will be an algorithm. The threads gather pace, gather new threads; hundreds, thousands, billions, and weave themselves together around the hundreds, thousands, billions of dreamers and thinkers and existers and … Continue reading Dissolution

Rate this:

Last Man Standing

They didn’t kill me, just made me wish they had, bastards. We were all there that day, lined up ringside waiting for the off. It was top billing and we were crackling with anticipation, the scent of victory already creeping up our noses and fuelling our self-belief.  Our man was big. The biggest. I mean really big. So big their man couldn’t even reach him never mind hit him. So what, that it was barely a competition? All we cared about was winning. We had bets, we’d make a pile. We’d get the hell out of the gulags and away somewhere warm … Continue reading Last Man Standing

Rate this:

An older tide, touched

So they walk; ancient crystals of silicon counting the millennia between their toes. For the moment, they are silent. All that could be said has spun away to echo across time in infrasonic broadcast, pulsing its message  from the inferno of inception to the deep, dark, thundering conclusion. But then: Where did we come from? The beginning. Where are we going? The end. Those are our questions too, or would be if we had any place in this way-station. What lies between? I don’t know. What is ‘I’?   Older than the seeds of life carried on meteoric messengers, newer … Continue reading An older tide, touched

Rate this:

Yesterday was the best day ever

It was the day mum and me had just been to the big shop in town to get my senior school uniform and even the smell of it was thrilling. I couldn’t wait to wear the dark green winter skirt, scratchy or not; and the satchel – well that was glorious! All shiny leather with new, stiff straps and brass buckles. We hurried off down the high street towards the bus stop, mum putting her purse away and me thinking about the bubblegum in one pocket and the thirteenth birthday lipstick Gillian had given me in the other. What was … Continue reading Yesterday was the best day ever

Rate this:

Bad Apple

Ollie was sitting on the sofa, watching TV, when he first noticed his hand disappear. He was about to scratch his nose when there it was. Or rather, there it wasn’t. Right up to his elbow, it wasn’t. Then, back it came, just as suddenly. It looked a bit electrical around the edges, but otherwise … Ollie held it up to his face, palm first, and spread out his fingers. All accounted for; although the end of his index finger had a slight glow to it, he thought. He pressed his palm up against his nose, and sniffed. Chocolate and … Continue reading Bad Apple

Rate this:

Letter to a child

To Whom it May Concern You are not my son. I am not your father. You trod a path that is alien to me. We are not family. You took household commodities and fashioned out of them violent and indiscriminate death. No son of mine would do that. No son of your mother would do that. No son of any Lord that I know of or that I can imagine would do that. You are not my son, your mother’s son, our Lord God’s son, nor any son of this beautiful, wonderful humanity of which we are part. You are … Continue reading Letter to a child

Rate this:

Worth Repeating

‘Tick tock, tick tock’ ‘Gimme the keys, fucking moron!’ ‘…and as the Prime Minister’s car pulls away…’ ‘Tick’ ‘Gaffer tape, Jimmy’ ‘Gaffer tape’ ‘Jimmy. Moron’ ‘Telephone number 0767453. Tick’ ‘Pete’s place, Greenwich’ ‘Bertie likes his cheese! Clever Bertie!’ ‘ARMED POLICE! COME OUT, PUT YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM! COME OUT NOW!’ ‘Any sign of the hostages, Mike?’ ‘No, nothing. Just some bloody bird squawking about gaffer tape and Greenwich’ Continue reading Worth Repeating

Rate this: