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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Tuesday, November 30, 2010


Celia closed her eyes for a second longer than would constitute a blink. Her long eyelashes fluttered, caressing Quentin's cheek. He rested with his arms stretched coolly above his head, fingers clasped as if in prayer. Her face almost pressed against his; misty breath rolling across the space between them. She lifted her hand and gently soothed his brow, tracing the line of his nose to his lips. He felt cold. She closed her eyes, for longer this time, and sighed. Celia, too, felt the chill as she stepped away from Quentin and shut the freezer door.

Monday, November 29, 2010


So great is the power of human self-deception that, despite my bunion's relentless ache, I didn't think it necessary to reinforce the corrugated iron roof, because I didn't believe that the meteor shower would happen. Ignore bunions at your peril.

Friday, November 26, 2010

Metaphysical Fridays.

What is a chicken? What is a road? Did either have a purpose in regards to one crossing or being crossed by the other?

Thursday, November 25, 2010

People who bother me.

People who feign dishonest ignorance bother me.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Is like.

Writing an obtuse simile is like writing a simile as obtuse as this simile is like.

Friday, November 19, 2010

Metaphysical Fridays.

Circular logic works well because circular logic works well.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

People who bother me.

People whose character, when held up to the light and its fine print examined, is found to be riddled with clich├ęs, bother me.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010


The following excerpt is lifted from a thesis I wrote as part of my third PHD. At the time (1998) I was living in Athens and submitting papers extramurally to the Aristotelian University of Peripatetic Contemplation, Atlantis. (Formerly the Platonic University of Socratic Dialogue). It involves a field experiment I conducted with locals from the inland village of Ano Souli which hypothesised that 'Neither rhyme nor reason can be explained either in rhyme or by reason.' 

...The stifling session neared its conclusion. The sun maintained an intense heat even as it rapidly lowered. Answers had been difficult to extract and my theory was no closer to being proved or disproved. A zephyr passed and gave cause to the parched ground on which we stood to puff clouds of choking dust. The tiny dessicated particles mixed with sweat and spittle to form a dry paste on the faces of us all. I sensed my subjects were agitated and tired of my questions. One last attempt, I optimistically thought. A breakthrough of some sort was required to boost morale for tomorrow's gathering.
"Hands up if you've brought dishonour to the group," I accused in my most dictatorial tone. "Dishonour!" Not one of the accused raised an arm above their head. They shuffled uncomfortably and surveyed the hot earth. "Well, dishonour has been visited upon this village; of that there is not doubt." I was joking, of course. "Now, wave your hands in the air if you just don't care!" I invited in my most convincing children's television presenter voice. "Woot woot!" was the cacophonous response as 24 hands were flung skywards. 
I was perplexed. How could it be that to indicate apathy such an active response was deemed universally appropriate? "Ok, let's call it a day," I proffered, and hoped my odd English vernacular was understood. "We'll reconvene tomorrow." Tomorrow I would ask them to shrug nonchalantly, or twitch an eyebrow if they just didn't care. Would this engender the same woot woots of apathetic approval? I had a hunch that it would not, and the reason was something to do with rhyme...

As you can tell, this was a thesis at the forefront of its discipline. 
I may include larger tracts in my yet to be published autobiography.

Monday, November 15, 2010


I've been hearing voices in my head for a while now. People worry for me, but I allay their fears with a small dose of sanity. In my head is really the most appropriate place to hear voices, I tell them. If I begin to hear them out of my fingers, then you can be certain something is terribly wrong.

Friday, November 12, 2010

Metaphysical Fridays.

Are there some questions that can't be answered? Prove it.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

People who bother me.

People who are really capybaras that shape-shifted into people bother me.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010


I'm within a few paltry calculations of completing the mathematical equation which provides the formula with which to prove the certainty of the human fascination with shadows. It is called the adumbration blueprint.

Monday, November 8, 2010



All authors are artificial constructs to some extent. Derrida was partially correct when he suggested nothing exists outside the text. I advance the theory to a further conclusion: not only does nothing exist outside the text, but more than that, the text actively creates this Author. I imbue the text and it imbues me. If it were not for the benevolence of words and language I would not exist and yet neither would the text that is formed to describe my existence. The text does not absorb me to supply a framework for my narrative but rather it designs and delivers me and I in turn supply it with the narrative with which to explain my being. There is no hierarchy. Rather the text and I are inseparable: letters are my cells; phonemes are my DNA; my atoms are thematic.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Friday, November 5, 2010

Metaphysical Fridays.

Do you like music, or do you only enjoy how it sounds? Is music mere auditory wallpaper to you, or a vessel from which to extract meaning about yourself and the universe?

Thursday, November 4, 2010

People who bother me.

People who claim to have coulrophobia bother me.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Tuesday, November 2, 2010


I've come to a decision: rather than have you attempt to decipher my intentions, let's assume you are mistaken and we'll continue the story.

Monday, November 1, 2010


His ears burned and he felt sick. Dad's voice was uncomfortably loud. Strident adult debate about the news of the day excluded him as it swirled around the room. His stupid unshod feet dangled exposed from beneath the nylon cape the barber had draped across his shoulders before lifting him onto a board that straddled the arms of the solid steel chair, raising him to an embarrassingly false height. He was too hot and the noise was too much. He was being ignored and everyone was laughing at him. They must have been mocking him for the ridiculous way he had to sit propped up with naked toes. Frustrated tears welled in the large mirror. He caught his father looking at him and they were both ashamed.