Life of a naM

You’ll only find a Nam on a strange world called Htraetenalp, which is harder to find than it is to pronounce.

Nam’s form slowly via one of two options, one group forms deep under the ground collecting nutrients slowly from the worms that form a Nam. These bugs and bacteria even helpfully create a wooden box around the Nam in preparation for the birth, the family gathers around as the box is pulled from the earth.

The other group form in the ocean and burst forth from the seaward waves, white dust flinging itself into an urn displayed toward the sea. The dust is put into a great furnace which bakes the Nam.

In both cases there is now a body but no soul. The family now wait over the body praying for a soul to come. In a common ritual paper like material is soaked with saltine water which is then absorbed into the family members eyes. It is largely unknown why this is done.

At some point the body takes its first breath and the eyes flutter, I suppose we would call it a soul. In their first years Nam’s are quite docile and harmless some even seem brainless. But soon there body takes shape, becomes stronger and the wrinkly skin tightens.

This is where the similarities between Nams stop. No one Nam is the same. In fact most are entirely different from each other. Small, big, black, white. There’s a strange beauty in their vast variety, it’s a strange beauty because seems to cause conflict. The conflict of a Nam is unlike any other as it creates life instead of destroying it.

Sometimes souls are created through violence. I witnessed a body with a ghastly wound in its neck healed by a man with an axe (who had just been absorbing that same saltine water into his eyes). Then afterwards they began fighting as if the newborn Nam resented being brought to life. Truly these people are a mystery.

The biggest enigma of all is a Nam’s apparent death. Towards the end of a Nam’s life they became attached to their ‘reaper’. First I thought the reaper’s sole purpose was to end life but I soon came to see that she wasn’t solely a killer but soothed and made the process easier through apparent love (if Nam’s know what love is). The female seems to steal the youth of Nam overtime, her skin tightens while the Nam becomes stunted and dwarf-like. Eventually both the ‘reaper’ and Nam are rushed to a hospital where a fleshy tentacle erupts out of the reaper attaches itself to the now tiny Nam. He is taken into the reapers body with assistance from doctors where the reapers abdomen swells (in which I can deduct now contains the shrunk Nam. This abominable swelling decreases slowly. This process takes 3/4 of a full rotation around their local sun. I have no other theory other than that the Nam must have been absorbed. Disgusting really.

As terrifying as this fate is, I suspect that from their apparent increased happiness towards the end of their life they look forward to the absolute bliss of being consumed. In all my time among the Nam’s I have come to envy and fear them, but it is mostly fear that I feel for these primitive, backwards beings.

Sex, drugs, and charity induced euphoria

I hear a dial tone in my dreams. Each ring slips through my psyche. These nightmares always end the same, “Hello, I can’t take your call at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep”

Working at a call center is hell. ‘It’s just a job’, you’d tell me. Just a job.

And what is a job but just a way to obtain money. Fuck all the deadbeats who told me through highschool that “money can’t buy happiness.” They didn’t get how important money is.

I’m not saying that I prefer those on the other end of the spectrum, all those sociopathic wallstreet types always blathering about “Time is money.”

Their attitude isn’t entirely wrong, but they’ve got it the wrong way round. Money is time.
Time spent talking to pensioners about their problems in my depressing cubicle.

Times have changed for men.
I wish was out in the fresh air chopping wood, exercising my body with each swing of the axe all while the great beautiful sun is shining down. In my mind I can hear a gentle stream and birds singing simply because they enjoy life.

Then I open my eyes and I’m brought back down into reality. The sound of the stream is Gareth loudly enjoying his coffee while endlessly whistling some out of tune melody.

We aren’t volunteers, we’re fundraiser paid on commission to get donations. There is no real work going on here, we produce nothing. I have no axe to swing and there is no need, we humans have technologically ‘advanced’. My fingers are well defined from tapping all day while my back is slowly deforming from sitting at a computer all day.

It’s not like outside of work is much diferent. Each night I arrive home exhausted despite doing nothing and eagerly throw myself into the warm hole of Youtube, Reddit, and Facebook. It’s all escapism of course. Same with video games, why go out to the club when I can rescue the princess with no risk to ego and esteem.


The only purity in my life is the walk tofro work. As well as being my sole source of vitamin D- it’s in those precious 30 minutes that I feel most alive. I am moving and can feel the world: dirt grass, trees. Not the lifeless plastic of my keyboard and mouse.

As I arrive to the center we start off the shift with a motivating talk. As if I’m meant to feel good that we are fundraising for charity.

We are worse than door-to-door salesman, at least with them you get an ‘absolutely amazing’ 16 knife set. With we sell to some poor sap all they end up with is a nice feeling and a tax receipt. That nice feeling wouldn’t last if they found out we took half of their donation.

I’d like to construct some Robin Hood fantasy, taking from the rich and giving to the poor while in actuality our donors are the poor.
And the sick.
And the old.

The irony isn’t lost on me that the great pay is what attracted me to the charity industry.
It’s true- charity is big business- and I can’t speak for the results of our fundraising but I can speak for the people we take our money from.

It takes a certain type of person to donate:
First- capacity, having money.
Secondly- they need to be fragile. Emotionally malleable. This is why our donors most consists of women and the elderly, we pick the bones of society to help those at the bottom. Like advertisements we create a problem that didn’t exist before(in the prospect’s mind)- some earthquake on another continent, a rare disease. It’s really irrelevant what it isNot only do we try to pull their heartstrings, we tune their heartstrings and then strum a heartbreaking song on them.

We just a need something to band the masses against. For the Nazi’s it was the Jews, but the terrifying thing is that it could have been anyone. Modern society doesn’t understand the true terrifying nature of the Third Reich was in it’s constantly morphing moral ambiguity. The tragic history of the Jews is nothing to dismiss. However, the horror of the holocaust resides in the sheer heartless practicality of Hitler’s takeover.

In the same way we fundraisers takeover the minds and hearts of own prospects/prey. We are admittedly, the lesser of the two evils, in that we manipulate people to act out of love and compassion – as opposed to hatred and indifference. However it is equally manipulative and underhand.

I wonder if humankind will lways be at the whim of the man at the speakerphone. There is a scene that comes to mind from Charlie Chaplin’s ‘The Great Dictator’, just after the famous speech which the film is mostly known for. Just after delivering his inspirational speech he strangely takes of a face of pure hopeless as the crowd wildly cheers. This is not explained explicitly however I am drawn to the theory that Chaplin is horrified at the crowd cheering in equal fervor as they did just previously for Hitler’s ideas.

It is this same cosmic eternal horror that I constantly find myself in. Our offices own ideology is split between two major schools of thought. On one hand we’re encouraged to feel happy that we are doing this for charity and are simultanously bombared with salesman propaganda (Always be closing, Glengarry Glen Ross type stuff).

Caught in the middle are us fundraisers who come from all walks of life. From students looking for quick cash to middle agers looking for fulfillment in their twilight years. And we’re all looking for that Margaret with her juicy pension that she is just ready to give away for that sweet ticket to heaven. A younger Margaret would have laughed in our faces and hung up. Time has come to the rescue, 80 years to be exact, and now she’s asking herself, “Will they let me in when I get to the pearly gates?”

And I answer that thought, “Absolutely… with only $20 to sad shit foundation you can find salvation.”
And then again I’ll call in a month and this time it’ll be an “Wonderful $30″.
Next month it’s $50. Once you show that precious weakness we won’t stop until you’re bankrupt or dead.

Without a doubt, doing charity work has been the most depraved job I’ve done.

But that’s not entirely true. I try to think of a job that would be morally ‘good’ or philanthropic. That query is beside the point when faced with the greater question of what defines a selfless act at all?

My personal reasoning is that many of the selfless acts we celebrate are in fact not different from regular acts. We’re all chasing that good feeling, looking for a fix whether it be sex, drugs, or charity induced euphoria. All motivations are essentially selfish.

We jump in front a bullet for our lover because our life would be unbearable without them. In conclusion the only real selfless acts are either done by accident and not acknowledged or are done in a neutral fashion where you don’t get that warm fuzzy feeling.

I’ve come to a realization that this essentially defines my job. I’m neither Mother Theresa or the Wolf of Wallstreet but rather reside in a neutral zone. Perhaps I can feel good about getting this money to the extremely unfortunate but I am taking it from the unfortunate. It balances out, I am in one of the few jobs that allows me to do truly selfless deeds of charity. Not that feel anything about that fact, if I did it would cease to be selfless.

Unfortunately, I am actually kind of feeling proud about this strange twist of logic so I suppose I was right the first time. My job is depraved, in a strangely beautiful way.

Too much


I used to laugh at the Mexicans behind the wall. I was just a child but the bitter irony isn’t softened by the fact. Now we all sit behind the wall looking at the far off city lights.

I swear the wall has moved further away over night. Not that it mattered, the single fact that mattered was that I was on the wrong side.  We hadn’t noticed. we’d been drinking (of what origin I can’t recall) and warming our toes by some foul smokey fire. These Mexicans burnt anything they could find, trash was abundant. No one minded, it was a rare optimism someone assumed they live long enough that they would die from a bad old lung. The cold desert wind was more likely to take you.

I didn’t fear that freezing desert air taking me. My greatest fear had already taken me; the wall.

I can’t quite determine when I ended up on this side. It was in the middle of the sweltering day, we were squeezed out like sweat. New denizens came everyday at an increasing rate, wandered around dazed trying to introduce themselves (as if names mean something here).

Today has not been a bad day even with all that in mind, I caught a well rounded rat.

Another night of moaning passes. The groans come from the people and the unforgiving wind blowing through our shanties.

More and more people are flooding in. Each new group looks slightly better off than the last, we all looked better than the mexicans. We were all equal in the pit, and if anything the Mexicans were superior. The day my family and I had been swallowed (or spat out if you prefer) I finally understood the secret behind there knowing smiles. These smiles were prompted by my cruel laughter.

Now I smiled knowingly when I heard laughter coming from behind the wall.

I don’t smile at much else. Times are changing fast now. There are too many people in general. Food is on thin rations but so were feelings. It was hard to stretch the human spirit so far. Like fabric it was going to tear– and there would be blood. Ideas were hard to come by. Every man was the same, hungry and smelly. There were no heroes of the pit.

Too many cooks ruins the stew and boy was this place brewin’ with stress and grief.

In a way the wall’s small progress was comforting, a sense of purpose for the people. Men who thought themselves leaders theorised that we were conquering more land, but we all really knew that this land was the same as the last– dry and dead.

The only good thing about that wall was that we were getting closer to the lights in the sky. I watch them glitter all night, they never move unlike everything else here that squirms and wriggles.

Finally I have laid my eyes on the lights and they are attached to a tower.

We are getting closer.

Something is happening at the base of the great tower. Big constructions. Not even the construction workers are safe from the wall, I see them often and ask them what they did in the big tower.

“Demolitions  on this skyscraper and just some simple work, say do you know how I can back there?”

I would just smile and walk back to my tent.

The meixcans are singing loudly tonight and the smoke isn’t so bad, my coughs died down.

“Lights are moving up.”

They chant over and over. My stability in this mess has been demolished just as this tower is about to be.

I sink into my squalor and cry into the thirty dirt.

Waking early I see that more construction workers have arrived and introducing themselves pointlessly. I rush forward to the wall to see if the tower has fallen.

They have almost cut completely through the bottom, like a lumberjack felling a tree.
It’s still standing. They removing bits from the bottom of the skyscraper bit by bit. They’re moving up and I return to bed feeling some how even more rejected.

As night comes so does the strong night breeze. There’s a loud crash that wakes me from my sleep, probably just a fight, but then the screaming starts– and no one around cares that much about a fight. I get up see the commotion coming from the empty base of the tower.

My God the wall has fallen over, I run with the crowd as we rush to the base of the tower.

There are men with champagne looking down at us. They laugh and but no one smiles.

There is a lonely construction worker sawing away at one last steel beam.

“Stop, stop!” we shout at him, he looks confused but continues absent mindly with his task anyway. A burly man knocks him on his arse.

A loud unnatural groan booms down from the heavens.

Slowly but surely the tower rises into the sky.

We through bricks as if to shoo it away but I secretly wished to weigh her down and bring her back to earth.

I asked the last workman who had been lefted behind why he’d  continued cutting.

“It’s my job mister. Do you know where the nearest bus stop is? My name is Mich-..”

Ignoring what he said I simply watched those city lights rise into the night to join the stars.

I hope it was worth it, I thought.

I hope it they find something.
I hope they come back.
I hope they don’t forget me.

So you want to be a Writer?

I am a writer,
or at least I say I am.

My habits fit the creed perfectly.
I regularly watch inspirational video’s of Neil Gaiman.

Never give up on your dreams.

My passions are in tune perfectly,
I routinely bleed on my brand new Hemmingway-brand typewriter.

Show don’t tell.

My technique is flawless.
I have 1,237 words that I can substitute for the word ‘said’

Only ever use said, idiot.


I specialize in writing pieces about writing itself.
(What do I even write about other than writing?)
A snake that eats it’s tail,
I am a writer
(and/or an idiot?)


Priest had a name once, but he had long forsaken it. He had forsaken many other items of his person. The first and foremost is the incident in which he gained his fame in this small town, however in order for it to make a cent of sense a tad of storytelling is needed.

After an apparent psychosis brought upon by an existential crisis (theorised to have been brought about by lysergic acid diethylamide or an incident with a tram), Priest punched out every mirror he came across. A young, well-built boy, his blows easily demolished most mirrors in a few hits. The cuts sustained he refused to have bandaged, letting the pink flesh glisten in the sun. He even himself admitted that this behaviour was antisocial and he didn’t really understand the purpose of it- however like a modern day Socrates his philosophy took precedence over societal expectations. His early beliefs were never documented fully though he was once quoted that;

“Nothing means anything, least of all me.”

His rampage on his reflection continued for 3 weeks until serious action was taken. No mirror, nor window, ner even the smooth surface of the ocean in the wee hours of the morning (he threw bricks to disturb the water until eventually the wind picked up by the afternoon). His family, being devout Catholics, turned to God for a solution. You may already be theorising his complete rejection of Christianity however there is no ironic motive behind Priests name. He took ahold of faith like he had of philosophy: with utter fervour.
His family welcomed him home with a huge dinner. They prepared prawns for Priest as per his preference. When they brought out a silver dish he said a grace of which the words are dead and buried as with all those who sat at that table.
Myth has spread that he talked mostly of sin and of its relationship to man. The grace was so touching that his father immediately began to write a donation cheque to the priest who had fixed his deadbeat son. The son also agreed and summarised that he also intended to become a priest himself.

With great cheer the food was served. The great shinning dome was lifted to reveal the roasted prawns. A salty aroma filled the room. Priest looked deep into pile crustaceans, and then looking past the prawns into his own eyes reflected in the silver platter. After that supper rumours spread that Priest’s eyes had changed colour that night, I would put that fact down to exaggeration.

However it is no exaggeration that something changed behind the man’s eyes, his soul underwent some sort of transformation. I mean he must have to explain what he did immediately after seeing his own reflection.

As if falling back into old habits Priest grabbed mirror-like plate and smashed his own face into it, shattering it upon the dinner table. Astonished- his father grabbed his son trying to prevent him from further harming himself. The prawn grease and blood pouring from the son’s face acted as a lubricant and as a mode of escape for Priest. Slipping and sliding from the dining room he sprinted out of the house. They found him 3 blocks away covered in blood.

Using a shard of a mirror he had castrated his own balls.

It was a small town and some how those sick voyeurs the press were called to the scene where Priest released a ‘public statement':

“Mankind is full of sin, mirrors and testicles are equally condemnable as they multiple the amount of men and sin on the face of Earth. I won’t be apart of this sickness.”

Needless to say his family ostracised him and he was left home(&ball)less.
Priest travelled the country hiking from church to church with only the Bible to keep him company.
No decent brotherhood would accept him or his wild ideas. He eventually concluded they were heretics and returned to his home town.

There he became known as he is remember; as ‘Priest’. Every Sunday he gave a street sermon.
The dirty trodden roads became the house of God, the park bench was his pew, and the gutter his podium.


My mother and father met him at least once, but he had passed on long before I was born. His memory still lives on in the old stories of children bringing him mirrors to break for entertainment. But these are almost contrasted by the strange and challenging tales of his rescue of a young girl from a would be child murderer. After which he told the young girl,

“I would also kill you and the sin within you- had God not forbidden it.”
Of the more common stories I have collected many reminisced of the firm hugs he gave to strangers in the street which lingered a little too long as if he was tempted to squeeze the life out of his sheep.

It appears that Priest suffered a lot from the an exaggeration of same pain that all Christians are supposed to feel. A hatred for their flawed self and their evils but also being forbidden from killing oneself and killing other sinful men.

If Jesus was a more human God, than Priest was a more human version of Jesus. In constant suffering from exposure to the bitter cold and cutting wind he died slowly. The towns people walked past him quickly avoiding his stare, which he was happy of, his end was coming and the years long dream of matyrship would become reality. Priest’s own crucifixion had taken years of suffering in the cold.

With his passing women and men took to the streets crying and sharing there stories of the man they had all been touched by (at least physically if not spiritually).

I question how loved a man can be who died slowly in a gutter behind a night club. Especially by a town who had just the previous night– before sleeping sleeping snugly in there warm beds– had knelt down and began praying for God to show them how to be more like Jesus.

Pontious Pick

Pontious Pick was born at 13 pounds by a white mother. Pick shared his skin more with his father, although no one could compare- except those who saw him running from the hospital. Already pronounced a bastard among his community Pontious, had broken his first rule: taboo.


His schooling life brought no more favours than his birth. His initials instantly became a dynamite joke among the playground “What’s your problem PeePee?” the mean spirited students harassed. Pontious could be seen behind the sports equipment shed mouthing the words ‘no problem‘, the words came out a breathless whisper. Unlike his mouth, his skin was asking for trouble. It promptly changed its colour: to black and blue.

One day in the yard, Pontious whispered ‘no more’ and as if the words gave him great power and came with a vicious nature (which was determined by the School board to have originated from his savage heritage) dealt his oppressors. This event is the most important in Pontious’ short time in the education system. If you had asked him what the most valuable thing he learnt in those dark hallways he would respond,

“You have to be cruel to be cool, babe.”

Before long Pick was fighting against the police, a far more tyrannical oppressor. A hungry and growing lad, Ponty (as he was known, although the nickname soon became somewhat a insult in the area for years after) crawled under his neighbours barb-wire fence and set upon the miniature dogs which roamed through the massive property. He captured a rather round Jack Russell Terrier and was bringing it back to his mother for a stew when he was picked up by the police.

And now Pontious Pick had broken his second rule: the law.

Again he mouthed the words in fear ‘no problem’.
Pontious’ mother found him empty handed, his skin black and blue as the night sky above him.

Pontious hated the coppers and broke many laws in his free time. In fact he endeavoured to break every law possible. Before undertaking such a momentous task Ponty decided he would have to study the laws to know them inside and out.

Thrice he attempted to pass the BAR.

“I would destroy them from the inside.”
He loudly beckoned as several law students politely asked him to be quiet in the study.

The day after he graduated his mother was killed in a car accident. In an effort to distract himself he buried himself in his work as a defence lawyer. He worked tirelessly, freeing obviously guilty criminals into the world to commit further crimes which he took ownership of.

‘Pitiless Pont’ was the outlaw in law and he loved every second of it. The public called from his ejection from office but his cases were always logically sound, he was simply so good that the judge and jury could not ignore his evidence. ‘If only my mother was here to see me do such wholesome work’ he mouthed to his bedroom ceiling as struggled to sleep.

Pontious soon came to realize that although he had broken laws and thrown off the chains of many oppressors he was still on the leash of his own body. He came to accept that he would never be able to rebel against the laws of physics.

And so he accepted the death of his body…
but not of his soul.

And so I, the author of this account of my small life beseech ye to cause rukus in the street, to rage in the parliaments and rebel- rebel as the thorn does from the rose.

“The pen is a long arm from the grave” I spoketh into your head.

Silicon Gold Meat

The humanity will end in a dream of gold and silicon.

The virtual will shadow the real,
slinking & stalking,
before pouncing upon our necks with fangs.
The death will be a doze.

What we give for a perfect life simulated
will be what it means to be alive.

However they will be better
they will perfect perfection.

The dinosaurs hanging on to nostalgia will be displayed,
there will not be many.
Life without a cause has no effect.

The effect will be reserved
for metal
NOT for meat.

What to do with this news?
Bide time
Thank god for the sins of the meat.