Lola, she was a dancer... something about flowers in her hair or was it her underwear? He couldn't actually remember the lyrics to the song or who sang it, but the melody pounded in his brain like a ballpeen hammer. What the hell was he going to do? Lola was a crappy name anyway. What the hell did it stand for? Lolita? Margola? Or some sort of anagram, or whatever the hell it was when you smushed the first letters of a bunch of words together for the sake of brevity. All he knew was that Lola, whatever it stood...
Alfred Cappachino looked out at the swirling mass of humanity, a stupid grin plastered to his face to hide his abject terror. Which one of the lovely women in the throng was his blind date? He adjusted his spectacles for the umpth time, then reconsidered and pulled them off, wiping the lenses on his shirt before returning the accessory to the bridge of his nose. What did she look like? All he knew was that she'd be wearing a 'geeky' t-shirt, whatever that meant. Geek was chic now though, right? Hence, his glasses with the clear frames, his strategically-parted hair,...
Edgar watched the raven as the raven watching the moon. Silhouetted against the clouds, she was a beautiful sight: a black winged goddess caught within Diane's silvery glow. Little did he realize that the raven was taking orders, orders that Edgar himself would soon come to regret. The onyx bird turned predatory eyes upon the human that spied upon her, and he quickly closed the window, latching it from the inside.
Not that it would do him any good at all.
“Send me a picture.” he’d said. Well, typed. It was that kind of initial flirting request. She had responded with a
:-)
a
:-P
and a
<3
and then, eventually, with a selfie.
Analysis of the GPS data encapsulated in the header file, compared with a record of CCTV locations, and her smiling face as a search parameter from stored footage, provided her entry point to the location. Cross-matched with the stored WiFi coordinates her smart phone had used to send the file, the exact location was confirmed. The “Le Poursuivant”
Inspection of the blurred background of the photo matched...
It was rather like being a ghost. Vicarious snooping. A social media haunting (stalking?). The only way to keep in touch with the untouchable children, who were no longer part of life. Maybe, the FaceBook groups should have been diplomatically UNLIKEd, given that they were only there because of previous parental responsibilities. Or the Messenger App blocked, due to ocassional earthquake requests, unsettling and unfooting in their simple, direct, but untimely demands.
Finding out a once was daughter has the lead in her drama group's next production, via accidental browsing of a stream. Realising another was home from university, only...
This is a confession that I wrote for you. Only you. And I know you won't understand this because your heart doesn't race at the sound of my name or voice. But I wrote this because I hope you do understand this. That you do feel something when you hear my name or voice.
I always seem to be behind you. It's not even one step that's separating us. It's a million steps that I'll never be able to close up because your expectations are slowly eating me up. Everyone seems to love you and I'm afraid that I do...
“They’ve been sat still for 38 minutes. It’s clear they’ve just dug in to defend their flag. I say…”
“You say…” 117 interrupted his Squad Leader, who couldn’t have looked more pissed.
“John, enough of your shit!” He slid a finger across his throat in what he knew would be a futile gesture. “We’ve got the same tacticals as Red Team. We have the same number of cadets. They're boxed in. I say…”
117 coughed. “You say… er… Sir.” I think he genuinely tried not to sound insubordinate. He failed.
“All right, soon to be ‘ex’ cadet. Out with it.”...
I slept inside the dream I didn't spin from yarn
this time inside my dream
i didn't spin another lie within the tale
you never sold to me
I look inside this bed I didn't make
the spell i didn't spin
from yarn inside my dream
I couldn't sell this dream to awakened eyes and ears
and dreams never do
sell themselves well outside the walls inside our hearts
I bake for you but do not eat
I draw for you but do not sell
I sing for you but do not sing
The things and songs from stolen dreams...
Leaving was the easiest decision to make, and the hardest action to take.
They were just sitting there In the box. Helpless.
Helpless was the only word that seemed to match all around. Why wouldn't someone destroy everything in that box. Why wouldn't they be debauched to within an inch of the last bit of everything there ever was?
She was always too soft when it came to things. It's like her house was the place where things came to be rescued, rabbits, fledglings, dogs that ate the rabbits that took refuge there and demanded to be rescued themselves, and...
Pollution is an artist
and poison is a poet
Death is the brightest of colors
Noise is the sweetest song
Pollution won a grant
and poison won a fellowship
We're meeting for drinks downtown
to celebrate their well-deserved
recognition.