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.

On a mirror’s edge


I whipped off the sodden sheet to reveal the mirror. I dropped the cover only to see in the mirror that in the reflection the cover was already laying on the ground. My mind reeled back. This couldn’t be happening again.

I swung my hand up. And there is it was again! My hand was already in the air.
Shivers ran down my spine, it was if I was looking at an entirely different person. I couldn’t resist blinking incessantly, my reflection always a fraction ahead of me.
There was no earthly explanation for this, it was the work of a God… or perhaps his counterpart.

My fixated thoughts soon took a turn into the philosophical.
Was a truly in control of my fate if this mirror could predict my actions, or was I a puppet to this inanimate objects whims?

Before I could even attempt to think on the enigma before me, my reflection reflection seemed to be horrified at something.

The mirror seemed to be accelerating. I was seeing further into my very near future and whatever was there seemed to horrify me.

Watching closely into the prophetic mirror, I witnessed my face suddenly calm and said something (I’m no lip-reader) and then I turned around entirely as if to hide from the gaze of the mirror.

This was unfathomable.

I tried to calm myself as it became obvious that I was scaring myself- I repeated the old mantra: there was nothing to fear but fear itself.
Like two mirrors facing each other me and my reflection were communicating.
Concentrating on the rational behind this madness had an instantly calming effect on me.

My reflection turned around, his face went pale as he gasped with horror. I could tell this wasn’t simple paranoia, something had happened. I watched and waited while biting my nails incessantly what could possibly cause me to have such an extreme reaction.

My future self swiftly walked straight towards the mirror with a terrified expression petrifying my face.

The image projected from the mirror  suddenly was tilted. I must be moving it. A view of the outside mountains and the sea came into view. Another violent tilt threw the view into an incomprehensible blur.
Blood dripped down the surface. There was no doubt; it was my blood.

I could no longer stand having this evil creation in my presence, let alone sight.

I ran over and grabbed it by the golden-trim frame. Being careful not to look into its manipulative images- I decided I would throw this horrid thing into the ocean and never lay eyes on it again.

Running down the embankment my foot fell under a loose rock, I tumbled down the hill with almighty crashing shattering.

I tried to get up to complete my task only to realise that the mirror had been shattered, and among the jagged shards a large piece jutted in between my ribs. The blood spurted onto gentle seaside grass.
I could taste rusty nails under my tongue.

I looked down at my wound and looked down at the shard of the mirror. It reached further and further into the future. I could see my face went pale and bloodless as the light in my eyes left and the bugs entered. My skin turned a dark brown husk as the flies and maggots fed. Faster and faster it showed my inescapable fate. Day and night flashes the sun rising one second and then the moon, until there was nothing left but a ghostly white skull.

I mourned that tot even my skeletal remains would be as they turned to dust before my doomed and cruelly fated eyes.

My reflection is slow


My face contorted in the mirror into horror. I still couldn’t comprehend: somehow, my reflection is slow.
I was watching myself become aware of this very fact which had approximately happened 20 seconds ago.

Immediately, cast a tattered blanket over the bewitching mirror. I felt safer knowing that no light was entering its cursed substance to be manipulated by some off-worldly force. At length and via great effort I convinced myself that this was some peculiarity science could explain. However, the logic I used was contorted to the impossible facts that lay in front.

My mind boggled at what conclusions could be reached by this simple yet terrifying discovery.

One thing that would be certain would be massive attention, and I since I do physically own the mirror, there could even be profit to be had. Mulling over the grand plans of enterprise I decided to check the mirror again. I pulled off the sheet only to reveal my own surprised face (in the present). It was if the enchantment had worn off.

I was disappointed that the reflection now seemed to be in-sync with reality. A sense of relief soon followed, I would not have to deal with an arcane mystery. What had I been thinking? Making a profit over this divine object, I would surely be inviting some Godly wrath upon myself.

I draped the dusty sheet back on the mirror to regain that sense of security. No comfort came however.
I sat back down on the settee to process and question my own sanity.

A glimmer of light from the mirror caught my eyes attention.
With a gasp I could see a single eye peering at me out of a moth-bitten hole in the torn sheet.

Swan Venom


How can a swan spit venom
or a flower bloom in bile.
You came into my life
With hatred for your fellow monkeys
Overflow from the hatred of yourselves.

What is this alchemy that seeds love
And love for one so toxic
And vile to all and specially herself.
You were a snake of which I was wary.

Before my eyes you changed to a crushed flower
Bruised, damaged, and displayed.
A smile at your page is redemption paid.

Why do we cage the beautiful,
The birds of feather sing well together.
Is that not true of monkey to.
Where is the feather on fellow man?
On his skin, his foot, his haired head?
Only in the soul do show true colors

Mine transfromed red and speaks of only love to you;
Stupid bitch that I hated
and through.