Plaster

October 24, 2013 § 1 Comment

Man lies on bed. Stares. Wall. Plaster peels, partly. Echo of rain on tin, on wood, on tin again. Always noise yet not-noise persistence of indefinite sound. Hand moves, retreats. Wind on glass, glass on frame. Creak of elsewhere. Rafter. Laughter, perhaps. Old dust and webs. Thin blanket of age. Left, lost life. Guttering.

Blood Hand

Man lies on bed. Stares. Ceiling. Plaster peels, moreso. Shadows sit, soft. Rust rhythm, removed. Grasp of light, gasp of lightness. Twilight. Darkness. Warmth fades, cooling.

Man lies on bed. Stares. Nowhere.

Plaster peels. Crumbles. Collapses.

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Oh why do you cry, little boy…

October 6, 2013 § Leave a comment

Oh why do you cry, little boy, said the wolf
Oh why do you cry, said the wolf

My mother is dead, sir wolf, said the boy
My mother is dead, said the boy

Yet all mothers die, little boy, said the wolf
Yes all mothers die, said the wolf

My father lies dead at my feet, said the boy
My father lies dead, said the boy

All fathers must die in their turn, said the wolf
All fathers must die, said the wolf

And where is your mother, sir wolf, said the boy
And where is your mother, sir wolf

She lies in the snow, little boy, said the wolf
Shot through with an arrow, said the wolf

Shot through with an arrow, little boy, said the wolf
From your father’s bow, little boy

So I ripped out his throat, little boy, said the wolf
And your mother’s heart, said the wolf

For all parents die, little boy, said the wolf
And all children too, little boy.

For all parents die, little boy, said the wolf
And all children too, little boy.

bsmnt

May 30, 2013 § Leave a comment

Y fckn lttl sht whn wll y fckn lrn y sty n th fckn bsmnt r y gt nthr fckn btng y fckn lttl drty bstrd nml dnt fckn cr fr fcks sk nne fckn crs y fckn mk m sck y fckn lttl sht.

The Riddle

March 7, 2013 § 1 Comment

In the Riddle, no elektrycks light the alleyways. Drenched torches brood in their sconces like blinded beggars and only pallid starlight, tinged even here with the unearthly arclight, shines from the rain-wet cobbles. On nights like these, rats and humans are brothers; huddled in their homes, fearful of outsiders.

Oil the window. Latched. Point 7 jack-lever. Softly, softly…

On Pynchpenny Lane, the sign of the Fourteenth Rose creaks in the gusting wind. Rusted hinges squeak a feeble protest into the damp air. Water gurgles in the gutter and swirls down sluice pipes to the street below.

Push and through. Sweep the floor. Boarded. Third from window creaks, must remember.

A black beetle, dislodged from some scurry-hole in the rafters, rattles down the slating. A shiny pebble rolled in the breakers. Legs flail weakly as it hurtles over the brink and drops into the blackness between the buildings.

Mark. Ingress secure. Stifle and cut. Ten count. Exeunt.

A window rattles faintly against the sill. In a sparse room a cooling body lies on a pallet bed. Bright blood stains the sheets, leaking from an opened throat, and another corpse will join the Riddle’s Bed, buried in the morning’s yellowing light. No questions asked. No tears shed.

The Riddle

You don’t solve the Riddle, they say. The Riddle solves you.

Alarum

March 6, 2013 § Leave a comment

Trapped in a crate-lined cul-de-sac, the would-be burglar suddenly understands why breaking into Felix’s Frivolities was so easy. It’s the leaving that’s hard. Leaving intact.

Hydraulics hush-hiss in the shadows, scissor-claws slide from brushed-brass paws and the warehouse’s watchman slinks forward. More graceful than mere automata, the mechanicat’s head draws level with his and tilts to one side. A slight smirk reveals the glimmer of crystal teeth.

“Hello little mouse,” it sneers. “Hello little toy.”

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