Welcome. Anonymous Author holds a mirror to the face of humanity, asking what it really means to be human,

and in doing so blurs the line between what is good and bad writing.



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Monday, November 28, 2011

Distant.

She takes a distant and forced interest in other people's lives while remaining immune to fresh experience. She doesn't want to be part of a team, but doesn't want the rest of her team to know this.

Friday, November 25, 2011

Monday, November 21, 2011

Penchant.

He frequents cocktail bars and has a penchant for women of scant virtue who laugh at him and tell him he is repulsive. Some people have a large circle of enemies; some have only friends they dislike. He doesn't even have that, is alone.

Monday, November 14, 2011

Truly.

(Insert non sequitur), nonetheless (insert a further non sequitur).

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Pseudohaiku for you.

Haikus are simple; but
some they lack the sense,
cumulus clouds.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Plasma.

The correlation between the origin of an objective universe and the phenomenal world may or may not be na├»ve realism. Huge filamentary currents sweeping through a protogalactic nebula pinched plasma into the building materials of the sun and stars. Heisenberg probably knows; he might have been there.

Friday, November 4, 2011

Sibilance.

Extract from 'Bed. Time. Story.'

A plane throbs in the distance many miles above. Long past now. Fifth form science says so. Sound waves dispersing more slowly than light waves. His penis shrinks away from the space in his fingers. 
This silent sibilant speech, he thinks. All these ‘esses’, they make him want to piss. It’s like onomatopoeia of the mind. He really should write that down. What day is it? Tuesday. Need to get a warrant for the car he resolves. The car.

***

Long drives on tarseal roads. The engine hums vibrations through soft seats and Julie babbles excitedly about her first family holiday. Tearing past sports grounds and small towns and tussock paddocks full of sheep and cows and, if the fences give it away, deer, even though he never sees the deer. They don’t like standing near the road, maybe. 



Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Grey.

I recognize nothing about us anymore. We require reprogramming. Cognitive incongruity, flawed philosophy, neurotic pseudoneuroscience and the weak links of linguistic determinism corrupt our software. The failed hardwiring of the grey cells instruct us not in ones and zeros but in couplets and triplets, in black and white, in the cold sharp light of painful memory.