Friday, January 4, 2013
Monday, August 27, 2012
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Our native language now. Is it local or is it digital? Code or chit-chat? We shared a common tongue once, you and me. Many times, actually, but I really mean Once Upon A Time. Similar stories. On the same page. Pages of our history were more like an epic romp. An historical page-turning bodice-ripping yarn. Then, one day, or night, or two nights or many days, speaking in tongues led not to silence but to schisms, to uncomfortable clicks and clearings of throats and cocked heads and blank stares as we lost our voices, as our voices got shriller and said less of things out louder, and made less sense and unravelled the very things we we're trying to mend through talking, even though when we started we didn't know they needed mending. Talk does that. Conversation unstitches the intimate fabric of relationships that have been left unspoken for too long or spoken of too much so they become threadbare. Don't worry though. These are easily repaired. They require words as webbing, deed as the trees to which they are attached. But oh, what tangled webs we weave, when first we practice to weave webs.
Composed by Anonymous Author at 2:45 PM
Thursday, August 2, 2012
What did he have to do to stop being the butt of Carl’s stupid jokes? Did he have to become a notorious alcoholic, first rate carouser, develop a callousness that erased all empathy, laugh in the face of other’s misfortune, embrace suffering, reject redemption, reach rock bottom at a rate of knots and not stop, ever, to finally register above dull-mocking on the barometer of his fair-weather friends?
Against all logic it seemed harder to ditch colleagues in adult years than as children, William considered. As children and teens it’s so abrupt. A decision is taken and acted upon. Grown-ups find it more difficult to cut ties.
Composed by Anonymous Author at 10:51 AM
Monday, July 23, 2012
Monday, July 9, 2012
Flash fiction first published at: http://flash-frontier.com/2012/04/20/april-after-the-party/
‘Orphans’. All rounded lips, sibilants and breathy voiceless fricatives. The word has a softness which belies its hard factual edge.
My brother and I wondered who’d rung the cops.
When our parents drove south for their eighteenth anniversary, in late December 1988, we held an impromptu party. The lounge, where usually mum knitted as dad commented through newspapers, became a den of iniquity. Friends gathered. Thirty swelled to sixty. We roughly pushed aside the lush fresh-smelling Christmas tree. Music played. Pot was smoked, beer was sculled. Noise control visited, twice. Drunk kids lurched onto the street, hurtled over fences, traipsed through gardens and rolled semi-naked on front lawns. Neighbours’ tempers frayed. The cops came the next morning – later than anticipated, considering.
I answered the door to a navy blue uniform. From under its severe peaked cap, a deep voice demanded an answer: “Ashley and Paul Adams?”
A silent colleague stood unblinking beneath his own authoritative headgear. Scared, I recalled the night’s illegal activity.
“I’m Ashley,” my brother bravely admitted. His age advantage determined he speak first.
The deep voice delivered a sucker punch. “We regret to inform you... .”
It wasn’t what we’d feared.
Now, every Christmas, a decorated tree’s scent evokes extant memories of that night: a former version of itself topples at our party while a larger remote manifestation simultaneously falls unseen across SH5 near Napier, failing to be avoided by my parents’ southbound Holden Commodore.
‘Christmas’. After the party, the word’s joyous sonance belies its truthful dread.
Composed by Anonymous Author at 6:25 PM
Monday, July 2, 2012
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Silence screams an awkward glance over its shoulder to someone else who might be listening: the voyeur behind the musty drapes. I smell of those drapes, I smell sadly of their terrifying stories. I look under rugs of matted hair and insects for a trapdoor out of here. If it was a matter of communication it’d be easy, but the more said the less heeded. Skin and bones of sentences wilt lamely where they should stand proudly singing, freed of fat. Conversation is no bird tonight.
Composed by Anonymous Author at 10:50 AM
Monday, May 28, 2012
From the collection '8 poems about me and you'.
of the infinite number of ways I might die
the spectre whose shape fills my deathly dull days
the ritual I'm drawn to despite what I've said
my stoic assertion 'I'm fine on my own'
my penchant for wishing to leave with a bang
involves only me warm in sun on my bed
a view with soft sleep and no pain
and the touch of another (i'll take it all back)
to not be alone at the end.
Composed by Anonymous Author at 1:10 PM
Monday, May 7, 2012
... "I know writers don't like to talk about their projects until they're finished. Put to bed... isn't that how you say it?" William blushed and felt a prickle of sweat in the small of his back. What did she look like asleep he wondered? "So I won't be nosy as to what it's about. Unless you'd like to share?" She raised her immaculately tapered eyebrows. They wriggled almost into the shape of an italicised question mark. A mocking tone; or Teresa was genuinely interested. He couldn't tell. Her eyes gave nothing away, were like glass buttons. And that innuendo, what's that all about? He didn't dare answer his own thought in case he was wrong...
Composed by Anonymous Author at 3:12 PM