tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83025579252323677032024-02-20T11:54:42.841+13:00The Ghostwriter in the Machine.Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comBlogger317125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-60120751930655800452013-01-04T18:34:00.001+13:002013-01-04T18:34:17.461+13:00Busby. <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Apparently blogs are so 2012. That is to say they are old hat. Like a Busby, geddit? </span>Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-71122964802951103842012-10-26T14:19:00.000+13:002012-10-26T14:19:31.896+13:00Flash!<br />
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<span style="color: #444444; line-height: 16px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">First published at http://flash-frontier.com</span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Flight</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You. After school. Basketball court. Snap my fingers snap your neck.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Kevin’s experienced fist thwacks his palm. A rainy afternoon scrap’s arranged to test the mettle of the new boy on the block. I’ve no choice, and at 3.30pm unwillingly comply. For too long I flail miserably, impotently. The repugnant young spectators bray. Then I see red, as they say. Thrash him. Give him a nose twister, a nasturtium. Cave Kevin’s face in. Bones splinter. Kevin sees red, too. Blood red, then grey. He crumples with an awful permanence. Something has shifted forever.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I freak out. Fight or flight? Fight and flight. Across the field, out the gates, into town. It’s rain-dark. Silverbeet-coloured trees, which are neither silver nor red, shroud the slick roads. I run fast, bouncing off strangers. Mist permeates their angry, sibilant voices with coldness and the white noise of tyres on wet asphalt becomes ugly. I would have welcomed the punch in the face – it was the threat of the punch that caused more damage. Peering back every few steps, through the inkiness, I feel sick.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“We want to see the colour of your fear,” he’d told me. Well, this was it: a boy tearing through blackness, all his light absorbed. I’m inseparably linked to the end of the world. Or think I am. Or want to be. It pours. The sky pounds a percussive dirge on the footpath. Bleak rhythms belt against the concrete. I’m still running.</span></div>
Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-86232951216808715362012-10-16T10:21:00.000+13:002012-10-16T10:21:06.472+13:00Peeve.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvEpn9-1eUvS3qW2HfQuRj8uR2KtpwpCEUgs32o1QbwpdGgG7WUYox-CGFkuRGFKkE3FeScEq8zDkPwUxMW3EBVeBuwohL6U_V7K5uFQsifJFDatUOpZ2wtaNoPYqbFvZDJflnpEGuq-Y/s1600/Spelling_Peeve%2337.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvEpn9-1eUvS3qW2HfQuRj8uR2KtpwpCEUgs32o1QbwpdGgG7WUYox-CGFkuRGFKkE3FeScEq8zDkPwUxMW3EBVeBuwohL6U_V7K5uFQsifJFDatUOpZ2wtaNoPYqbFvZDJflnpEGuq-Y/s400/Spelling_Peeve%2337.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-73188292588155113082012-09-24T09:33:00.000+12:002012-09-24T09:33:04.450+12:00Flash!<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #444444; line-height: 16px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">First published at http://flash-frontier.com</span><br style="color: #444444; line-height: 16px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="color: #444444; line-height: 16px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444; line-height: 16px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"></span><span style="color: #444444; line-height: 16px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><b>Toby</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Toby’s in bed. He fights sleep. His memory remains vital, his memories many. He recalls childhood, the episodes and chapters that authored his life, as if yesterday. He recollects the time he listened to <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Badjelly the Witch</em> on the large-buttoned cassette player. How the “ding-ding” of a triangle heralded an exotic foreign accent which instructed him to “Turn the page…now.” And how Mother, vanilla-perfumed, had cradled him, held the book in front of him and offered “Would you like me to turn the page, dear?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Toby remembers a fever: he’d hallucinated Sesame Street puppets which crawled out of the television to attack. He remembers, too, he’d not told Mother that earlier he’d swallowed the bottle of banana-flavoured medicine in one delicious swig. And, with ever-present Catholic guilt, he recalls a day he played hide-and-seek. Paralysed with fear of discovery, he’d stayed rooted to the spot and pooed in Mrs Lockhart’s bushes. The stinky mess had smeared warmly, shockingly, down the back of his thighs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">From this bed, which roils senselessly in past and present tense, Toby reviews his edited, now abridged, life. Forty is <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">too</em> abbreviated. Reminiscence narrates reality. Morphine induces horrific visions. Faeces leak disgracefully from his colostomy bag. The triangle-like “ding-ding” of his heart monitor heralds – what? He barely contemplates the book in front of him. A pine-scented nurse places an antiseptic hand on his shoulder, asks “Would you like me to turn the page, dear?”</span></div>
Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-17752843146157882002012-09-17T10:56:00.001+12:002012-09-17T10:56:50.209+12:00Framed Excerpt.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp4_D_dUA9NmFIVWleL8lSZdS5luYOkpGY9YRc9Eh5dsqi9rcyWli5s4ewXvPa81QKkJ77NVQZ7UVwJw0Viu4kgp9tLMHz4dpfHp0EYiOatvUU3yxLj2ca41NBqMTYm5s0Wkf_QA-9iJQ/s1600/Like.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp4_D_dUA9NmFIVWleL8lSZdS5luYOkpGY9YRc9Eh5dsqi9rcyWli5s4ewXvPa81QKkJ77NVQZ7UVwJw0Viu4kgp9tLMHz4dpfHp0EYiOatvUU3yxLj2ca41NBqMTYm5s0Wkf_QA-9iJQ/s400/Like.jpg" width="295" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-40731208366823473522012-08-27T11:21:00.000+12:002012-08-27T11:21:21.920+12:00Flash!<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">First published at http://flash-frontier.com</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>The Greatest Show on Earth</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I feel like the spindly drawings in the corners of pages of books, flicked<br />through to animate this two dimensional space I inhabit. Here I am<br />mid-stride. Poised…</span></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My wife! She left me for another! What a Bozo he turned out to be. She<br />feared no one took her seriously. I cannot change the past. The future’s a<br />different story, which starts somewhere.</span></em></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You’re a clown,” she once whispered, affectionately.</span></em></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At college, I learned that in summary, the visual joke brings on a quicker<br />reaction, but the verbal joke is more widely quoted and remembered longer. </span></em><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I add audio for effect. The punch line is always a fart. An arse-blossom. </span></em><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">An amusing answer blowing in the wind.</span></em></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You’re a CLOWN!” She once accused, peeved.</span></em></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">People who suffer from coulrophobia bother me. I’m a sad cliché. Like a dyslexic man who walks into a bra, my life is laughable. A real hoot. </span></em><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Aoooggahh! Klaxon horns give me tinnitus.</span></em></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“YOU ARE A CLOWN!” She once screamed, then slapped my creamy white face red.</span></em></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Behind this scumbled visage of makeup, which radiates a cartoon sun, are tears. Mirth is infectious, like Ebola. On my deathbed, I think I’ll find that, actually, morphine is the best medicine.</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">…my oversized plastic clodhopper casts a shadow. Children perch on bleachers, peer under flapping fabric into the murk. They’re desperate for lightness. Ruthless absurdity enriches their lives.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A banana skin. I slip, flip, fall, land, fart. Hilarious.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Later, my fans depart: art distorts life; life funfair-mirrors art.</span></div>
Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-1833344651762865812012-08-16T09:59:00.000+12:002012-08-16T09:59:24.985+12:00Framed Excerpt.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG9lY_GqO_uWMH80QtUJPKlYDDsEQ1i2hGZ572HPZvkS4ZrTghL9X7IXOiIOC1theC8HQnBTW4rbnnnmYJX-Zr3AXzgpJutheB54RUVzkFLTAJcbEvsBO4-50t8_ekpyfLUeSI_CeTwG8/s1600/Question.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG9lY_GqO_uWMH80QtUJPKlYDDsEQ1i2hGZ572HPZvkS4ZrTghL9X7IXOiIOC1theC8HQnBTW4rbnnnmYJX-Zr3AXzgpJutheB54RUVzkFLTAJcbEvsBO4-50t8_ekpyfLUeSI_CeTwG8/s400/Question.jpg" width="295" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-56925775771137502262012-08-09T14:45:00.004+12:002012-08-09T14:53:05.384+12:00Tongues.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">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.</span></div>Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-47104997030869018352012-08-02T10:51:00.000+12:002012-08-02T10:51:19.125+12:00Ties.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">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?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">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.</span></div>
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<br /></div>Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-44702908867440303822012-07-23T11:46:00.001+12:002012-07-23T11:46:11.580+12:00Venn Diagram.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIGF4Ce405n3YtULrFjyclKL8VOTuC6njOl0FDOEViHVkCu7V1z7boCRMGlXy66P74-zyjl9ZDumiSl39ByzgBoj4da216P1YHPnW2PtIO1q0-2QdI4-or41GlvZDsJ31gEN-xCH8ADUY/s1600/Tautology.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIGF4Ce405n3YtULrFjyclKL8VOTuC6njOl0FDOEViHVkCu7V1z7boCRMGlXy66P74-zyjl9ZDumiSl39ByzgBoj4da216P1YHPnW2PtIO1q0-2QdI4-or41GlvZDsJ31gEN-xCH8ADUY/s400/Tautology.gif" width="258" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-61628919139460356892012-07-23T11:41:00.002+12:002012-07-23T11:44:06.730+12:00Flash!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-weight: 300; line-height: 24px;"></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">First published at http://flash-frontier.com/</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b>An irresistible force meets an immovable object.</b></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">YOU. ARE. SHITTING. ME! The pine trees too?!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Richard’s rising intonation peaked, piqued with indignation.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He was heightened, his brother remained grounded.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yep.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“This hill, the track, the cottage, that hill, the wool shed…” He squatted to batten level, closed one eye and focussed into the distance: “…the hay paddock, and the FUCKING PINE TREES?!”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yep,” said James.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Richard leapt, full stretch, like the live wire had given him a jolt. James was still, forearms resting on a strainer post.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“NO. WAY! Are they going to carpet bomb the place? It’s a massive chunk. Massive. It’ll be gutted. Ruined!”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">James regarded Richard. He’d visit what, twice, maybe three times a year? On the way to Matakana (Havelock North’s immature sister, James called it). Now though, as soon as the plans were finalised, he’d been up from Auckland like a shot. ‘Concerned’ for the place. Of course. Funny that. His unspoken but not unknown dreams of a subdivided ticky tacky toy town dealt a significant blow by a competing progress. You’d think gracious resignation would be in order. But no. One last roll of the dice.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What about the cows and sheep?”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Heifers and ewes’ll be temporarily moved. May get to run more stock by way of compensation.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That was that, then. Richard sped away, perplexed, like he’d lost something he’d never had. James enjoyed the irony. The farm was secured a future as a farm. Albeit with a new motorway through its middle.</span></div>
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</div>Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-51531966697713615802012-07-12T17:36:00.001+12:002012-07-12T17:36:23.001+12:00Framed Excerpt.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ-ETeaL-6_vlgcpjAT6w7z6XFAjR9jt0yKQXnV2Tzz5wK-nqxPKm1uTVif8UZH8nyXV345zuTFyPcwFUdhssoPd511Oa3GleTvowO0T8D-vTqUCzUdbJKnA7ZN0ChyOj_WMP5HiuE71s/s1600/Nature.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ-ETeaL-6_vlgcpjAT6w7z6XFAjR9jt0yKQXnV2Tzz5wK-nqxPKm1uTVif8UZH8nyXV345zuTFyPcwFUdhssoPd511Oa3GleTvowO0T8D-vTqUCzUdbJKnA7ZN0ChyOj_WMP5HiuE71s/s400/Nature.jpg" width="321" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-39426072019568696982012-07-09T18:25:00.002+12:002012-07-09T18:26:15.001+12:00Flash!<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Flash fiction first published at: http://flash-frontier.com/2012/04/20/april-after-the-party/ </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>Orphans' Christmas.</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">‘Orphans’. All rounded lips, sibilants and breathy voiceless fricatives. The word has a softness which belies its hard factual edge. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">***</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">My brother and I wondered who’d rung the cops.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">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. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">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?” </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">A silent colleague stood unblinking beneath his own authoritative headgear. Scared, I recalled the night’s illegal activity.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">“I’m Ashley,” my brother bravely admitted. His age advantage determined he speak first. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The deep voice delivered a sucker punch. “We regret to inform you... .” </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It wasn’t what we’d feared. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">***</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">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. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">‘Christmas’. After the party, the word’s joyous sonance belies its truthful dread. </span></div>Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-4840058831442775032012-07-04T15:40:00.004+12:002012-07-04T15:40:53.631+12:00Colour Plate.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZkGtAi8P6rk2rw2nn1HMVA0gyalx5h7u8vr2_e41-E4oPUlvu5kSblse3OB9hWD042mEORde94wgTFSg-Z4b1G37KgGqkFMcCs7YbMAubCKky8EvgpnMHwykr5Aruluts-oHGUifzaIU/s1600/Typography.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZkGtAi8P6rk2rw2nn1HMVA0gyalx5h7u8vr2_e41-E4oPUlvu5kSblse3OB9hWD042mEORde94wgTFSg-Z4b1G37KgGqkFMcCs7YbMAubCKky8EvgpnMHwykr5Aruluts-oHGUifzaIU/s400/Typography.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-38450955074593351452012-07-02T11:46:00.002+12:002012-07-02T11:46:47.101+12:00Flash!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #373737; line-height: 24px;">Flash Fiction, first published at: </span>http://flash-frontier.com/2012/06/28/june-hold-my-hand/</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Hear our voices.</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1.0 – The Great New Zealand Literary Vignette<br />The literary vignette has cancer of the eyes. Daring to look up from its<br />navel, gazing outwards, surveying You in preference to Itself, its<br />malignant words broadcast the true shapes of lives.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">2.0 – Tall Poppy<br />“‘Tall Poppy Syndrome’ was invented to avoid criticism. Success isn’t your<br />flaw; your personality is. You’re a jerk. Blaming your fall from grace on<br />‘Tall Poppy Syndrome’,” Jane mumbles to no one, “is another way you’re a<br />wanker.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">3.0 – 100% Pure Imperfection<br />David, who once won advertising awards and is now constantly anxious,<br />ducks around the corner to smoke a large bowl. Sweating, he returns to his<br />spot on Queen Street. “Y’know who I used to be?” he spits. He used to be<br />the small boy who’d fall asleep with his head on his sister’s lap. He<br />misses Jane.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">4.0 – No.8 Wahine<br />Jane was a ward of the state during the 70s. Today she walks past leaky<br />homes in Waterview. Workers erecting a wire fence cat-call “Phoooowar!”<br />Leering men with calloused hands are something Jane’s always been used to.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">5.0 – A Common Senseless Approach<br />Dad died in what was reported to be a home invasion. Brutal and<br />newsworthy. David learned this via a static-filled radio, between hisses<br />and scratches of analogue interference. The report was later amended: no<br />one else was sought in connection with Peter’s death. But by then, David<br />was already living on the streets.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">6.0 – Hand of the Wrong Frightened Crowd<br />Northland’s forests, Southland’s fields, Westland’s bush, Eastland’s<br />hills, New Zealand’s homes are in this with us. Jane and David extend their<br />hands as cancer spreads from the vignette’s eyes into the Yous and Wes</span></div>
<br />Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-52547619088364897292012-06-26T10:50:00.002+12:002012-06-26T10:51:52.900+12:00Flash!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Flash Fiction, first published at http://flash-frontier.com/</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px;"><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></em></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b>An Aphonic Discourse</b></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #373737; line-height: 24px;"><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">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.</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Hayley rocks on aching feet, stirs cubed beef into thick sauce, waits for her husband to come home.</span></div>
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<em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Panic sets in. Peristalsis forces words to the surface. They hurt: the difficulty of their conception; their birth. Take them, sculpt them into what you will.</span></em></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Unseemly custard-yellow foam innards spill through the oven mitt’s floral cotton casing into the pristine kitchen – threaten to overflow into the pot, spoiling the meal.</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.625em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I imagine a time when my speech is sea and surges with regard for neither sand nor stone. Each lofty crest releases the finest misty nuance, brushes your face with meaning. Flowing from my lips, cold and thinly layered, water on a desert skin.</span></em></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Unwelcome splinters of images of Brad cause her to flinch.</span></div>
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<em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Your clothes I hate, your scent I hate, everything I hate. <strong style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Love you?</strong> I can never love you.</span></em></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Hayley vigorously attacks the coagulating mixture with a shallow steel spoon, her blue-black arm stirring in bruised, ever-decreasing, claustrophobic circles.</span></div>
</div>Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-84962710005499192552012-06-15T09:54:00.001+12:002012-06-15T09:55:04.881+12:00Framed Excerpt.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU-PYQGNn2jV1JD2W4vlaffm3Eit4D_8_Bluh2oOwqECevRE4xMhX6QGvJvqBhZw-0ZMjMMvNAxCDwkRcScD94V51iajhr9g4DNX5OgH8ZnsnymFk4MkUETRxKi1NQ7s_QMHaEDULfcrs/s1600/Updike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU-PYQGNn2jV1JD2W4vlaffm3Eit4D_8_Bluh2oOwqECevRE4xMhX6QGvJvqBhZw-0ZMjMMvNAxCDwkRcScD94V51iajhr9g4DNX5OgH8ZnsnymFk4MkUETRxKi1NQ7s_QMHaEDULfcrs/s400/Updike.jpg" width="295" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-11212845688281296022012-06-07T14:22:00.002+12:002012-06-07T14:22:54.024+12:00Framed Excerpt.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ao10lGkM8zTAwOdEvj23-JHwiYFTKHL4Pmi9wFfZd7g6ihPqcvz0BCD11EYMfOoHm_aRTKxjmvpUuFEGJQ-u7cs5LssgMnt-uEasQrVzc7sXsUjDQfwcYRbXfbyIU84Y0A1BxkPLhro/s1600/Opinion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ao10lGkM8zTAwOdEvj23-JHwiYFTKHL4Pmi9wFfZd7g6ihPqcvz0BCD11EYMfOoHm_aRTKxjmvpUuFEGJQ-u7cs5LssgMnt-uEasQrVzc7sXsUjDQfwcYRbXfbyIU84Y0A1BxkPLhro/s400/Opinion.jpg" width="295" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-42373630973510437702012-05-28T13:10:00.001+12:002012-05-28T14:49:05.715+12:00Ninety-nine.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>From the collection '<i>8 poems about me and you'.</i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Ninety-nine</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">of the infinite number of ways I might die</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">the spectre whose shape fills my deathly dull days</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">the ritual I'm drawn to despite what I've said</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">my stoic assertion 'I'm fine on my own'</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">my penchant for wishing to leave with a bang</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">involves only me warm in sun on my bed </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">a view with soft sleep and no pain </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">and the touch of another (i'll take it all back)</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">to not be alone at the end.</span></div>Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-52852877095029916862012-05-07T15:12:00.001+12:002012-05-07T15:12:22.420+12:00Teresa.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">... "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...</span></div>Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-81357841740586131102012-05-02T14:58:00.000+12:002012-05-02T14:58:05.257+12:00Experience.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The woman extended her lithe hand and gently clasped his swollen palm. She held it against her cheek. 'We're all dying,' she said, 'some more slowly than others.' '</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The next person you see', I displayed to the man in a frenzy of swirling green neon letters, 'tell them that I asked you to remember and relay this episode so that you at least have a shared experience. I know how lonely it can get.'</span></div>Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-25577763907282683632012-04-20T12:27:00.000+12:002012-04-20T12:27:26.709+12:00Reflection.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #202020; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"></span></span><br />
<div style="font: normal normal normal 15px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #202020; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He sampled the future in echoes of the past, made <i>are</i> were, before <i>is</i> even was.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #202020; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> <div style="font: normal normal normal 15px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">He transgressed, then transgressed again. He overslept, shamefully overslept, his world reduced to the space between two sheets. Unsustainable, unacceptable as an adult. Frequently achieved. </div><div style="font: normal normal normal 15px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">He did a wonderful impersonation of a reasonable man.</div><div style="font: normal normal normal 15px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">His mouth was a crooked scar on a plump face.</div><div style="font: normal normal normal 15px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Lopsided and tightly incised. Shaving, he looked sullenly into his reflection, then cast his eyes down to the basin. The water was black, which is as natural a colour for water as any other. His mood was similarly dark, a tint so familiar, so frequently applied as to become its natural tone too. He longed for a lightness.</div></span>Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-16590889390928961692012-04-03T13:10:00.000+12:002012-04-03T13:10:11.277+12:00Read.<div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The book I picked up and found my Self in read thus:</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I cannot be certain how long I stood in the same place, here on ice, in stasis, waiting for instructions on how to tame the words that flew from me and create with them a narrative of some reliability. Most likely it was squezzillion times infinity. I felt the urge to go and do things. I had the words and language surging crazily around me leaving neon green vapour trails, but they never seemed to form into a coherent and vital plot. I began to hallucinate. The moon waxed and waned on numerous occasions, which means something in your world, but was out of sync with nature and the fundamentals of time in mine.</span></div>Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-38332044009381363052012-03-19T16:32:00.000+13:002012-03-19T16:32:19.089+13:00Beginnings.<div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">...Before I was born, people did not know who I was.</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">My conception was a work of art. My father had died only an hour prior, but his spermatozoa had the presence of mind to continue his work. Abstract Expressionism maybe, like the 'white-writing' of Mark Tobey or the painterly application of Jackson Pollock. Hundreds of intricate strokes that helped describe my form. An asemic continuum if you will. (And you must!) </span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 13.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">My birth was similarly a creation of fine art. My Mother had been a blank canvas until I was writ large upon her, and sadly, after months of incubating a life's work, she died delivering her masterpiece. I was extracted from my amniotic sanctuary 6 weeks prematurely. An over-proofed yet somehow under-edited baby boy.</span></div>Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8302557925232367703.post-18867865915890070812012-03-07T09:50:00.000+13:002012-03-07T09:50:14.154+13:00Cover.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Work in progress of the cover for my yet to be published unauthorised autobiography, <i>The Ghostwriter in the Machine.</i></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNmeaEw11QblDL8am3DJyrv6S0GTpYyTGUcrkOsfxPnfnhQW83H9VE-2w4ZV38-qXAO5WRZiEtvcBjTGhFfVwupBi1Sy-PPUffovNMxYCNymYqQFJxr7EZz9uP_W8V2a5QeBejYbHDQ2w/s1600/Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNmeaEw11QblDL8am3DJyrv6S0GTpYyTGUcrkOsfxPnfnhQW83H9VE-2w4ZV38-qXAO5WRZiEtvcBjTGhFfVwupBi1Sy-PPUffovNMxYCNymYqQFJxr7EZz9uP_W8V2a5QeBejYbHDQ2w/s400/Cover.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Anonymous Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444800677706393145noreply@blogger.com