When my little boy was alive, he made a lot of friends, which is pretty cool for someone who hadn’t even learned how to talk. I guess he just had a lot of natural charm, which I suppose he got from his mother.
There was this family two doors down from us. They were what a lot of people would call rednecks or bogans or white trash or pikeys. Their kids loved Jojo and were round our place all the time. They were 13 and 9 and 6 and 5, although I can’t remember their names, except Kaatje the 6 year old. We used to let them take him for walks, and sometimes we wondered if we were doing the right thing. We were though, they loved him.
They came to the funeral, the whole family, there were more than 20 of them, and they cried, just like we all did. It was nearly Christmas, there was a row of naked silver birch trees outside a large, frosty window, and we all sung Silent Night, although half the people there were German and sung Stille Nacht, it worked rather well though.
Afterwards those kids asked where he was, and even though I was an atheist, I told them that he was up in the sky, with God and that he was happy. “What,” Kaatje asked, “like a balloon?”
“Yeah,” I said, “like a balloon.” and bit my tongue to hold back the tears.
How do you explain the words “gone forever” to a 6 year old? how do explain those words to yourself?
Joshua
12.05.11 | Categories: love, writing | Tags: children, Death, Sadness | 47 Comments
I am sorry to inform you, but sadly Mrs Bucket has passed away. She was found here in Kyle’s office this morning, clutching a picture of his unimpressive dick, having drowned in a sizeable pool of her own love juice.
My name is Sally Dofuckall, and I will be taking over until Kyle returns, which should not be long. He sends his kindest regards and says he is having a great abduction, he is particularly enjoying the orifice probes that these aliens so like to employ. He has met God, who he thought was a dicksplash and Elvis, who he thought was a god. He say’s that Joan of Arc gives great head and that Mother Teresa is into fisting.
I found this poem in his drafts. I hope he doesn’t mind me publishing it, I’m not sure it is finished.
i wanna dance with you
i wanna romance with you
i wanna fly with you
and get high with you
i wanna cry with you
i wanna die for you
i wanna come in you
and have fun with you
i wanna sleep with you
or count sheep with you
if we can’t
12.04.17 | Categories: comedy, flash fiction, sex, writing | Tags: comedy, Death, Poetry, rip, temping | 12 Comments
part one
part two
part three
Part four, Pearl.
Halle closed the door silently behind her and peered across the dark room. She could hear him breathing. He would have no reason to keep up the pretense, she thought, once she offered him the buckle. Not that she intended to give it to him. She had her phone and tucked into the waist of her black Pepe jeans were twelve inches of stainless steel kitchen knife. She flicked on the bedside lamp. His eyes were already open, staring blankly up at the ceiling.
What she hadn’t expected was for him to keep up the charade. She told him that she had what he wanted. Nothing. She showed him, she waved it in his face, prodded him with it. What was he playing at? Was it her, she wondered, had she been hearing things? She hadn’t had anything like that for years, not since middle school, when she’d hurt that boy, but she’d been just a girl then. Doctors had bored the voices away, she was fine now. She’d show him just how sane she was. She pulled the angry steel with a dark hush from its denim sheath. It smelt of strawberry-pop body cream.
Pearl could not remember why she had called, when Kyle got there, or even if she had.
“I don’t think it was me dear,” she said worriedly. He smiled, she was always like this. He peeked under the cover, without thinking, for a second, to ask. The sheets were wet, he’d thought so. “I don’t know who did that,” Pearl commented, seriously.
“Come on,” he smiled again, “let’s get you cleaned up shall we.” He lifted her into her chair single handed, he didn’t want to wake the others and she was tiny. “Like a bony little chicken,” he told her. He couldn’t be bothered washing her but he didn’t want her lying there wet, so he changed her nightie and went to get clean sheets.
He stopped and wiped his damp hands on his shirt and peered again down the corridor. There was a glow coming from under Albert’s door. Someone must have left the light on.
Halle tried to hold the knife steady, it wasn’t easy, she was shaking like an old phone. The viscous point barely pricked the skin, but he wasn’t going to move with it there, she thought.
But he still wouldn’t talk, despite her threats, so she pushed, gingerly, on the handle and made him a sadistic promise, in a voice that wasn’t hers. She shuddered at what she was doing, disgust and exhilaration mixing like volatile chemicals in her blood, making her fizz.
All he did was blow a little bubble of spit. It mocked her, she thought, it thought she was weak.
“That your best shot?” it said “That all you got, little girl?” Anger spread through her, like jungle fires at night and she kept her promise. It took her several moment to realise the giggling was coming from her.
“What the fuck?” said a surprised voice behind her, “Halle, is that- What is going on?” It was Kyle. ‘What is she doing to Albert?’ he thought. ‘Why is his duvet on the floor?’ and then ‘Why is he sitting up?”
The old man swung into a sitting position. As Halle turned he brought his heel down hard on her knee. It would buy him the seconds he needed, he was slow and stiff with the weeks of inactivity. With one hand he reached under the bed, there was a rip of tape and his hand emerged holding a large revolver; with the other he sent the knife flying expertly across the room. Kyle staggered backwards clutching his throat, slipping in his own blood. ‘Still got it.’ thought the old man.
Halle’s knee had exploded with pain. Shock waves rang through her bones, and she staggered, the room was swaying. Then he was on her shoving the gun in her face, pushing her up against the wall, telling her things, things she didn’t want to hear.
Pearl wasn’t sure how long she’d waited but she thought it had been a long time. There had been a boy, hadn’t there? He’d gone to get something. Or had he?Or was it the doctor? That could be it. She was getting one of her heads. She’d go and have a look.
He was telling her she was about to die. He wasn’t lying. Who the Hell did she think she was? Stupid! Little! Child! He punctuated these words with sharp, painful jabs of the gun, cutting her cheek. He rubbed at his groin, she’d hurt him at least, she thought.
He looked her straight in the eye, and stood back holding the gun, arm’s length, to her throat . He pulled his head back and away, shielding his eyes with the other hand.
Pearl pushed her way down the corridor. Someone had left an awful mess at the other end, she thought. It was all over the walls and floor, she was sure that it wasn’t meant to be like that, but people seemed to know what they were doing. There was the boy lying in the middle of it all. It seemed odd to her but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to look stupid.
She wheeled herself carefully around Kyle’s twitching body.
His flies were open. She tutted loudly, as she rounded a corner. Young people! Honestly! “Excuse me dear,” she said to Gourko, “sorry to be a bother-”
Gourko swung the gun round automatically at the little old lady and then realised his mistake. Halle punched him in the face with all she had, he reeled back and the gun flew from his grip.
‘Ooh dear!’ thought Pearl as the Colt Diamondback landed on her lap, ‘whatever next?’ She had little feeling in her legs but the heavy lump of carbon steel landed with a thump that shook her chair.
This was odd, she thought, but she wasn’t sure. A lonely neuron ran around a burnt out library in her brain panicking, trying to find a reference. She couldn’t remember where it had come from now. Well she better do something, they were probably waiting for her to do something, she didn’t want to look stupid. She picked the gun up and held it out like she had seen in the movies. It was heavy and wobbled in her hands. It was wobbling straight at Halle and Gourko. They both shouted
“No!” Halle adding
“Pearl!” Now what was it you said? thought Pearl. That was it!
“Go ahead punk,” she giggled, “make my tea!” and pulled the trigger.
Gourko was dead before he hit the wall. Halle looked over at the old man, half of him seemed to be missing or dripping from things. She tried to stagger over to the sink to throw up but passed out on the way.
As welcome unconsciousness enveloped her she could hear a little voice.
Pearl’s chair had been knocked over backwards by the recoil. Lying on her back with her legs in the air and her nightie over her face, she wondered how long she had been there.
“Everyone can see my knickers!” she complained again.
Halle’s boyfriend, Bailey, sits engrossed in the contents of the old attaché case. Its full of old photos and papers, yellow and curled, tied up in little bundles with tiny ribbons and neatly knotted string. She had laughed when he’d asked if that was it, and called him pathetic. What had he expected, Kryptonite?
Halle leaves him to the rusty brown envelopes and telegrams.
She climbs out onto the fire escape, up onto their roof. Takes off her top, and jeans, folds them neatly, slips off her Nike Skyraiders and stands shivering in a skimpy, brightly coloured, and clearly home made, costume.
She takes it out of her bag, it is too long to go around her waist so she fashions it into a figure eight crossing it between her breasts and fastening it behind her neck. The rush nearly knocks her off her feet and she staggers and falls over the edge.
Without thinking, she lands nimbly on a lamp post twenty five feet below. She feels its long glowing arm flex under her and spring back. She rides it, turning a slow somersault, high across the street, landing gracefully on a telegraph pole, her balance nanometre perfect.
The young woman runs effortlessly along the wires, scampers fifty feet up a wall and sits perched on a high roof like a bird, panting wildly.
She crosses the city in minutes. Swinging from lampposts jumping over walls, running along the train cables, tumbling over the roofs and chimneys: a blur in the night sky. A few people spot her and scream excitedly.
Halle comes to rest on a phone mast on the roof of a tall building halfway across town, sweaty and exhilarated. The seam on one of her shoulders is giving way, she is terrible at sewing, she hopes the crotch will hold.
She stands, tiptoed, on the very top of the mast, hundreds of feet up, and looks out across the city, there’s a scream of terror in the distance, a mugging perhaps, or worse. ‘Not tonight,’ she thinks, and leaps into the darkness.
12.04.13 | Categories: comedy, flash fiction, short stories, writing | Tags: Death, fantasy, magic, short story, super powers | 2 Comments
when we die
our web presence will remain
like ghosts.
technology will allow us to animate our spirits
from beyond the grave,
they will continue to interact with the living
uploaded to the cloud,
we will be digital angels
when we die.
Every second 1.8 people die. There are around 500,000,000 Farcebook users. That means in the time it takes you to read this post eight of them will have died, four of them will have been logged in at the time. There are over 70,000,000 WordPress bloggers. One of them will have died while you were reading this. I bet you wish you hadn’t read it now, don’t you?
12.04.01 | Categories: musings, poetry, writing | Tags: blogging, Death, Facebook, Poetry, WordPress | 11 Comments
