That moment

TShorts-Finalhis is a new feature, called Shorts inspired by a blog on Tumblr where a fellow wrote short SF stories everyday. Called 30 Second Sci Fi, it was tremendously successful and a great learning experience for him and he made a book out of it. I thought I would give something similar a try, and hopefully it will be more readable than Edward’s tale. And I made a cool (but cheesy) logo, so that guarantees the stories will be good!


Edward looked across the table at her. His eye were glossing over so she could tell she was already losing him.

“Never mind.”

“What? No, no I’m listening. He was using the balloons to tell a story… I get it..”

“No you don’t. I can’t believe I bothered. You are so rude. You are a moron. You hate me. Just go, vamoose. Stay. Why don’t you get it? Can’t you try? A little harder? God, am I that complex? It’s so bloody simple, my stupid iguana gets it; I can’t believe I am wasting my life trying to discuss these things with someone with a brain the size of a walnut.

Stupid rabbit.

Stupid me.”

The stupid look on your stupid face. It’s so worth it.


“That’s right Ed. Balloons. But since there actually weren’t any balloons right? And it wasn’t a story. You can see that…right?”

Hmmmm, I think I need to paint that wall again…


Bad Poetry


There once was a magazine crew,
With a professional communicator or two,
One always mumbled,
The other’s lines crumbled,
And left the point all up to you.

What issued was often confused
As dirty minds too much were used,
Oh it wasn’t his fault,
Her mind just wouldn’t halt,
Till one and all’s ears were abused.

So heed this cautionary tale,
As we track down this pair in jail,
She went for offensive,
And found it expensive,
Cause he always mumbled the details.

—On occasion of sending away the magazine

Song Sung


Mama always told me
you jest can’t be that proud
of something that just natural
of being in that crowd.

But then ain’t life a bitch
and there’s those that still care
An’ I can’t face a life
with some thousand yard stare.

But us two here together
floating in our little bubble
I don’t know the colour of your skin and
I don’t know the places that you been

I’m the one lived my life
and I ain’t felt I’ve been
the man, the one, a scion
graced child of privileged skin

My head don’t sport no shades
of crowns or golden fleece
but those women there says
I can just hold my peace

But if we’s here together
floating in our little bubble
I don’t know the colour of your skin and
I don’t care the places that you been

So I’m the man raised up
so high so middle class
pale and schooled, a Gucci
issued free boarding pass

Don’t got that swag don’t feel
that sweet, I ain’t that grand
I feel I feel fucked over
I feel the grit under the hand

But we can be here together
floating in our little bubble
I don’t see the colour of your skin and
I don’t hear the places that you been

So I scream screw them all
I dare them to blow
I know my bubbles’ shine
ain’t just there for the show

So let’s screw them all
and we’ll fold us so tight
Curled up in our bubble
afloat high in d’night.

Well. At least it scans. Sort of…
On occasion of remembering I am da man.

Fruit Basket

Fruit Basket

Life in the country

Melon collie faces
Straw buried toys
Ban Anna’s teasing

Breakfast was bread
fruit, juice and scones

Mornings in the barn

Time to come in boy
Ya Papa ya

Crossing the troughs
Of black current depths

Distracted by helping
Man Darren’s chores

Sun sets on a farmer’s day

Greeting the twilight
watching that old man go

Thinking of my piglet
And her sister Honey suckle

And another day
To begin après cot

A draft from Aug 7, 2011. I have no idea why I didn’t publish it, so I added a few lines and voila!




“Verse most perverse. Let us begin…”

On this day we examine our prize
For at our age we are thus wise
No feathered owls in cages gilt
Will glare at us with eyes atilt
Nor deny us our sagacity
From lofty perch in yonder tree

It seems as though we’ve reached an age
Of chapters full and many a page
But though we see this smallish break
We trust tomorrow new tale we’ll make
The story’s sweet and fun and bold
But there remains so much not told

Thus we begin another new path
And forward we float and flow and waft
With companions true and ever boon
This journey’s end will not be soon
And all together we shall grow
Through each moment we as one shall go


Last minute poetry
And this is what you throw at me
A song of love and hate and pain
So fucking trite so so insane

It makes me nuts this crazy shit
Don’t want it , Don’t like it,
No not one bit

But if he don’t ever finish this tale
That bloody author’s off straight to hell.

11:11 It is just a Symbol

On occasion of Remembrance Day and being pissed at white poppies

It is just a Symbol

I don’t remember
His quiet stories
Or the caress of his father’s hand
I don’t remember
Alphabet lessons
Or our playing in the sand

I don’t remember
The holidays
Or have memories of happy words
And I don’t remember
The uniform
Or the shriek of iron birds

I don’t remember
His touch, his smell,
The nature of his tones.
And I never knew his reasons why
or the lessons that he learned

But I remember that he once served
whatever his reasons why
And I’ve been taught that
he took flight
and flew across the sky

It’s true I’ve always known
He’d been there when I was oh so small
And whatever else that he may have missed
He must have smiled to see me crawl

But of the many skills
he had to share
moments and emotions
and souls to bare

There was no time,
no place, no song
His few moments were
too swiftly gone

In here and now, all that remains
Is history taught at nother’s knee
The images and old stories
passed down, just history

And yet they have now become,
And are my reasons why
As eleven eleven comes round again
I step aside from my conceits
and spare a glance for the sky

To take second to
Now that I’m grown
And think of things
That I have never known.

And wish that you Remember
Wherever your thoughts may dwell

That whether or not you knew them
They’re owed their silent, fare the well.

For the first time in history I find myself reluctant to share a poem or rhyme; indeed when I have ever been shy to share the nonsense that escapes my lips. I can see that the bones are there but it doesn’t do the the idea, the raw purpose much justice. Still, as amateurish puling doggerel goes, it makes my heart move a bit so I guess, for me, that it is enough.

But do me a favour and sing your own song or scribble your poem or paint your own picture and remember always, that on the backs of others our lives rest.



Caroline hadn’t had much of a life up until now: no friends, no dreams, no real interests. When she had first arrived in the city, she had hung out at these odd little cafes where people would get up and slam.

Slamming, or poetry slamming, or spoken word art generally, was an odd new trend where people would compete by standing up and reading their poems aloud, depending more on rhythm and flow than rhymes and structure.

Caroline tried it one particularly depressing night with no great success.

We Are Base
by Caroline D.

Have you considered the beast that’s inside you?
The animal that lurks
and screams from inside?

Have you considered,
letting it out, letting it ride
across the savannah?

Tearing, rending, chewing, spitting,
trying to derive some sustenance from the
meager flesh of the animals that scurry and hurry and pretend they are doing something important,
something real.

Those pathetic weak and childish beasts that swirl and spin
around you
every day,
every minute,
every second,
clogging your minds with the dust of their travels and leaving you nothing but a gritty taste on your lips and a brain filled with the stink of their passage.

Have you ever wondered
if you could survive on their leftovers,
the remnants of their lives, the sadness and the pain and the failure and defeat

Of your fellow man who thinks,
who believes
who knows

That he, or she, or it
is better than you,
more wild,
more fierce,
more able

I’ve never wondered.
I’ve never had to.
My beast
cannot be caged,

my beast cannot be held back,
my beast cannot be denied.
From the moment I was conceived,
my beast has roamed,
and torn
and attacked
and run away.

My beast has lost and won
and lost again.
My beast has survived on the leavings,
scavenged the corpses of others less strong,
gnawed on the edges of their success
My beast has known hunger and desperation and fear and emptiness.
My beast bears the scars of the struggle,
the aches of constant failure
and the price of its existence.

But my beast survives where others
lie in heaps and piles and mounds and walls
of bleached-out bones and scraps of fur
and teeth
and the small, tiny treasures
that every beast, every soul,
carries with it
to the end.

I once considered recalling the thing,
bringing it home to rest,
to curl up in the warmth of my mind
content, peaceful, happy with itself
and full.
Full of hope and sustained by the future.
I once considered caging the animal inside
And feeding it
And caring for it
and loving it
And trying to make it,
and me,

But I hate the beast
I hate its teeth, its claws, its smell
and I hate the way it hungers and slathers and whines and
round and round trying to get comfortable
trying to rearrange my mind to suit its dirty needs,
its slimy, selfish, horrid ways
I hate the beast and so
I cast it out.

Let it
work for me,
let it
bring me its tribute,
its trophies
its prey

Who cares about its victims,
who cares about their lives
No one cares about
Not even me.

So if you’ve ever wondered
What it would be like
to set free the animal inside
and free yourself from the pain
and anguish
of cowering in fear of your own soul


Don’t wonder,
don’t fear, don’t hide,
don’t dither and dodder or wither and whine about
why or why not or how, or what or when

Set free the caged creature, just cast open the gates
There is no need to worry
Leave the prey to their own




Woohoo birds
Flocks and herds
Define a shape
And then escape

Across the sky
This shape would fly
Change its aspects
As a new leader accepts

I wish my group,
Could choose to swoop
My clan, my peeps, my crowd
Together could be half as proud

As that soaring mass of fowl
Would we scream, or could we howl
At that open cyan sky
As they open their throats and together cry

Hurray and Woohoo
Together we do
Great things of great beauty
Feel joy is our duty

Though not among those far-off clouds
I was and am so very proud
Of the us all so together
My birds and friends of a feather