The Creaky Cottage

Some switch turned on in my head that tugged at my cowardly tendencies. Leave this place go back to momma and papa, it whispered from the . That was no longer me, childhood was behind me. I had a fresh start in this cottage by the sea. It’s acquisition is still a mystery to me– and I assume it is a mystery to my family. Not that I know for sure of that fact, I haven’t seen them since graduation.

The doors, walls and windows creak a greeting as I entire the living room. A part of me tries to resist labelling it a complete dump- I need to make the most of my opportunities from here on out- I compromise with my negative thoughts; it has ‘room for improvement’.

And so do I. I threw my clothes in the least decrepit cupboard and settled on the stiff bed. The last owner had been a old man as decrepit as his home. A distant uncle he must have taken a liking to me even though I can barely remember meeting him as a small child. He was a black sheep of the family, which is why he probably liked this little secluded corner. Probably the same reason it appeals to me.

The first task in alleviating the creepy vibe is to remove that god awful mirror that almost takes up a whole wall. An old fashioned frame mirror, the cobwebs draped over were obstructing a view of the churning ocean behind me.

Something was missing in all this. And I couldn’t pick it, the disturbance in the room was like a vacuous absence, reasoned thought could not reach it. Before I could determine the cause I a man entered the room behind me. I froze like the coward I know I am deep inside, and couldn’t will my body to move.

Fight, or flight choose one for God’s sake. The intruder turned to face me. I said a silent prayer as I saw my own face as he (or I) look around the room. I looked behind me but I could not spot any other person, let alone my doppelgänger. I looked back, and there he was exploring the room just I had done moments earlier.

With great certainty, a new and equally terrifying realization came to me, the source of my previous unease was that I had no reflection of my own.

Muddled Sleep

Multiple lives dart within my mind. I can only feel them in the temporary state of mind that comes just before sleep.
I see the ghosts they move across a cross-section brain. They become corporeal in the sense they are constructed from ‘real’ memories, but these experiences have caused me to question what are ‘real’ memories, moreover what is ‘real’?

sea mist 033

The sudden pain in the back of my mouth is real. It comes and goes, I’ve rationally determined that it is my soul leaking out.
These dreams need to stop, so I will close my mouth at night. No spirit will be using me to relive its own past life.

My own life is difficult enough to manage without others muddling in my psyche.

There is one life I am unwilling to set free to the ether. For it I allow the window open a crack, my mouth slightly agape and a breath whistling through my crooked teeth; calling her…

Oh but doesn’t love always hurt, even loving a woman deep in sleep to the combinations of all inputs. She is a princess and a hydra.
I cannot banish her from the castle of my mind, my yearning doubles every time. The witch brings some friends sometimes, these are spooks who see me either as a hero come to take her from their clutches or as the villain hiding her in my lair. I know in my soul despite judgements of these common characters that I am the villain.

Oh but to be the villain to such a lady is privilege, although a curse in some regards. All other females are dim and do not sparkle as she does when she laughs. Like the sweet taste of heroin she has diminished all other pleasures, not only ‘real’ women. Food is better at the thought of her. The simple laughter of children reminds me that I cannot have any with her.

It is not enough to share precious moments with her during the wee hours when the moon blesses our love.

Tonight the spring tide is at the high water mark, I can hear the sloshing from my bed. She is calling through the crashing of the waves, to join her as she does every night. I cannot reach satisfaction here in my bed clothes, that is not what my soul is built for.

So with terror and the burden of great courage I allow my soul to whistle past my crooked teeth, through my mouth slightly agape and slip out the window. In the sea-salt mist of the coast marshes I am with my love.

And by the mercy of God, I pray I never awake from this midsummer dream.


Mac Macavity’s Wondrous and Tragic Life

Macavity fiddled with the light bulb, spinning it while it illuminated the desk he was desperately trying procrastinate opening the black envelop sitting in his hand.
He could turn on the bedside lamp but the bulb was a keepsake, for it had long forgotten to extinguish its flame though it was connected to neither a power source or any form of energy. The sentimental value of it was enough to cause him a considerable outburst as it smashed. A mournful whimper while the light spilled from the broken pieces like golden yolk. The luminescence sunk into the carpet of his the musty room.

As you have perceived- matter seems to forget itself in the presence of Mac Macavity. This aura of ‘forgetfulness’ has a intense effect on people the most. At 5 years of age Mac’s father and mother rejected their own son and sent him to the streets. He could not control this ‘power’ and saw it more as a curse that occasionally worked in his favour. They forgot he was there son and assumed he was a pauper who had been squatting in their house. However survival came easy when the normal rules of society needn’t apply, relationships with people however did not come easy.


Moreover, the basic laws of the universe didn’t apply to Macavity either. He was an outlaw in every aspect of the word, with one exception.

To be specific: Newton’s Third Law.

What was taken has to be given back.

All though Macavity’s aura was seemingly random, he had identified certain patterns. The memories which he stole could not simply by destroyed but where placed in other objects. Brief moments, some bright and some dark embedded in the inanimate. The loose lightbulb that forgot to turn off had been his mother, shining so bright for the loneliest boy in the world. The previously bright blond colour of her hair had illuminated his world. Even long after she had lost memory of his name and face.

Macavity knew he had lost a piece of an angel that night in his forever shadowed study. His cheeks flushed and stinging eyes red with anguish and unbearable regret. Before leaving his dwelling he noted on a paper.

Let it be known,
that on this day,
The light has gone out in my life

Kneading Rock

Why shouldn’t I?

Why shouldn’t I?

Why shouldn’t I?

This is what you should ask yourself as you make any action towards resistance.

Why does greatness require pain?
The same answer is the same as why the rich are rich and the poor are poor.
80 years. 29200 days.

This is how long you have on Earth.
This is day 1 of the rest of your rest.
Inspire yourself to change… no one else will.

6,000,000,000 people live on this Earth.

You are 1 of them.
What will make you different and unique?
The days of the school yard are over, conformity is not going to lead to success.
The exciting but intimidating freedom you have been waiting for is here.

I can tell you what will be a sure actions that won’t make you a valuable and unique assets to the world.
Following the herd.
I am not saying

If you are capable of rational and imaginative thinking– which I am almost certain all of you reading this will be– than you will have no trouble thinking of the type of actions which will separate you from the “average guy/girl” you have been known as by the majority of the world. The key phrase here is ‘social proof’.

Which lead us to our key question; how to obtain it?

UnChrono UnLogical

With a swift walk I scrambled past bards on their lutes, they loudly competed with the baroque echoing from the makeshift cathedral constructed next to the men’s bathroom.  A stoic monk thrust an offering basket in front of me, I dropped some change in among the other strange talismans from all over time. Refugees of time-treks, stuck in between the crack of the universe (and yes I mean that in all possible interpretations). This place was a shithole.

I had just entered the terminal and I could tell this was going to be an ordeal, the Port always is. I needed to find out which gate I was booked into. The display was littered with incomprehensible languages.

“English please” I selected.
“Wunade fæst ár?”

“Modern English.”
“How can I help you?
“Going to 21st century, 2 o’clock”
“Gate 87, have a pleasant trans-dimensional trip.”

Dragging my sweet Samsonite suitcase through the musty incomprehensible smells and sounds of hundreds of cultures thrown together.

I broke my No.1 Travel Rule that day and asked for some help.
From behind he looked like one of those caped 19th century sort of guy. As I got his attention he turned around revealing in fact that a cyborg. If you take any sort of guidance from this account, it is to never ask these so called cyber-netically “enhanced” assholes a vague question. The fact he wore a cape made it all the worse.

“Uh hello sir, I am just wondering what the time is?”

“Well if you are talking about the galactically imposed super time then it is approximately 1 hour, 45 minutes, 12 seconds, 03 milliseconds…” and on and on until the finally with relief he reached the last indivisible unit, “-…and 42 plancktons. However I forgot to calculate how long it would take to communicate this information. It is now 1 hour, 47 minutes and…”
I was going to miss my flight but these cyborgs weren’t exactly very emotionally intelligent. I wasn’t going to snub off a man with laser cannons for arms.
“Just round up to minutes if you could. Sorry I’m in a rush.”

He stared into space, and I could almost see the data whizzing behind his cold blue eyes.
“I do not possess this calculation technique.”
You are shitting me up the wall, this guy could probably calculate the distance to the sun and back in a glance but not tell the time.
“But there is a clock over there.”
I swung around to see a bright red “2:51″.

That would have saved me some time, 5 minutes ago.

“Good bye, human person.” I heard the deep synthesized voice follow while I sifted back into the crowd.

Another thing that got on my nerves was the perfect clarity those half robot freaks pronounced every syllable, so timely and exact. I bet he has never been late for an important meeting.

You would think it would have been impossible to be late for anything since the collapse of time and space, but I would argue things are even more sluggish. Last week I got sat in waiting in a Saxon brothel for 4 hours before my cab picked me up (didn’t even have a condom on me, not that I was going to risk the catching the pox).
God knows why I picked a career that has taken me from the Big Bang to Big Sweep Up.

This job does have its perks.
At any rate at least I’ll have in-flight entertainment, hopefully Step Brothers is on.

A good comedy will take my mind off that being late will be the end of all reality


My father looked at me with his glassy eyes. The back of his head was matted with dried blood as his face became visibly paler.

His hand flexed as he dragged me closer to him, “The past affects the future.”
Groaning from the effort, “Why shouldn’t the future effect the past.”

The men appeared and carried him to the limousine, with me following as fast as my little legs could carry me.

My mother waved for me to come back, I understand now she stayed because there was a possibility she had seen the shooter.

I started shivering- not from the air conditioning of the limousine- but from shock as I struggled to clutch his hand. We sped past red lights as the car swayed back and forth which had become almost a second home to me on the campaign.

At this point I was almost at as delirious as he was, “Please Dad, you can’t talk.”
“It is my last chance to truly talk, all the useless chatter over the last months to thousands of strangers. While I must have said a handful of words to the person I love the most.”
Black bile dripped down his chin while I clung to the nape of his neck trying to keep his head upright.

“When I was your age, I used to hate having my haircut. It was the water spray, just hated feeling that icky wetness stuck to the back of my scalp. The fear was irrational, but I know now it why.” The back of his head slipped as the car skidded into the hospital forecourt.

His eyes rolled to the back of his head before regaining consciousness after a coughing fit. Men were shouting outside.

“I don’t have long…. I knew I was dead as soon as I stepped up on that stage.”
He clutched his at heart, which continued to pump blood out of the hole in his chest onto the thick leather seats.

“Some how deep down I knew, since I was born I would die like that. The future reaches back into the past, such a strong event has shaped my life up to this point.”

The door opened and two hospital orderlies began to look over the mortally wounded man.

“I was given signs which I ignored. But now I’m free from that divine trap
Free… ”
I can’t recall the exact moment the life left his daunt face, the tears stung my eyes though desperately I tried to look into his eyes one more time.
The service pulled me away though I clung on viciously. For the first time in my life I screamed, and though loud noises had horrified me all my life I screamed till my lung gave out. Regardless there was nothing the doctor’s could do.
I think a lot about what he said in that short car ride that has lived on in my head for years.
I connect dots the between the past and present  constantly trying to form a picture that will identify the slippage from the future. It has been futile and I do not know what the “signs” are2015.
The only clue I have is my abhorrence to loud noises which has been a constant ailment throughout life.
What I know for sure is that when my end comes, it will come in deafening fury.

Tin Ears

The ballet was in.

I remember holding my tiny ears as the cheering raged on.
Loud noises had frightened me since I was a babe.
My father, the leader of the free world, took the podium.
The intense clapping on encouraged me to clasp my ears tighter, however my mother
– always aware of the hungry cameras– tugged them off with a fierce smile.
“Smile honey.”
It was all smiles up on the stage and why shouldn’t it have been, we had won.

But behind the jokes and congratulations my father pronounced in front of his emphatic followers; was the tears, stress, and screaming which had taken place over the last few months of the campaign. It’s unfair as things would have gotten better undoubtedly for the offspring of the president, its also unfair to remember Dad as the psychotically driven madman he could be.

I remember the stench of champagne and tobacco dominating the previously wafting gun powder smell from the party poppers and fire crackers.
Hearing my Father practice his speeches over and over again immunized you against being moved by their words or in my case even caring to listen. But tonight was different, his tone of voice was relaxed as he told stories of being on the road, he wore a natural smile that radiated– regardless of the bright spotlights illuminating him.

With his bright blue eyes he searched through the audience, taking a few seconds break from speaking as he had done countless times before. The news station said it was a psychological gimmick, but I knew that he was looking for someone out among the million faces my father had seen throughout the campaign which had taken him from one end of America and back to here to his final destination.

“My greatest dreams have come true, and I hope through my government that I can help achieve the dreams all American’s hold in their hearts.” Again he paused as everyone hung on to his every last word.
“But this is true in another way,” he began,”I’ve dreamed about this moment, as in when I’m sleeping. I’m standing on this very podium and we’ve won the presidency but it always ends just as I admit that, like just now, I’ve had this very dream before .” And with that his face took a withdrawn look as if his world would collapse into a fading memory of a dream.

His blue eyes widened as in deep shock at seeing something deep within the audience.
Laughter echoed around as if it was all just another joke, but I was close enough to see in his taunt face that he felt a deep primal terror .
With seemingly great effort he forced himself to relax, “Perhaps I should just pinch my arm to be sur-.”

For no apparent reason I covered my ears again.

He fell back against the stars and stripes that hung behind him. My mother rushed to his aid, I didn’t realize at that point the situation until I saw the much darker red stripes that stained the flag slowly to the already blood-soaked floor.

The service grabbed me and my mother while they carried my delirious father off the stage.

From the screaming audience that acrid gunpowder smell returned as cut sharply through the booze, smoke and smiles.