fishing
throwing back red herrings hanging onto salmon of knowledge sprats to catch mackerel it’s a little fishy getting schooled looking for no blood in the water or to leap the shark working on an ark to not be in the belly of…
Tag: regular movement
Story Engine
If a story were an engine I would be able to listen to it and tell you where the error in the running was located. Is it the narrative drive belt? Are the paragraph pistons not firing? Is the idea fuel not…
the freedom in the flaw
the way you remember the story the way you wrap the gift the glass smoothed out in longshore drift some former glory something from the past played out divining with a hazel twig in a drought i was unwritten once we were…
Fleas On The Fleece
All the hypnotic sheeple rotated around the supermarket as the muzak seeped into them and turned their bones to jelly. They leaked a small amount of pee into their pants at every step, and that triggered an urge to buy some Frontlode…
Flyer Flies
He was hung upside down above this latest little poster he had designed, hanging by Grip-Tips fastened firmly into the concrete. There was an Own-Drone cycling around the building lower down, and he knew if it spotted him one of the Integrity…
hung in a pause
the worst lies we tell are to ourselves knelt in an ebbtide; a coastal shelf hung out beyond the tread water point where swimming is a requirement and you are saying that the life raft is in me that i have to…
In Search Of Answers
I used to think of myself as an answer to the problems of the people that came to me, but I was wrong. They were answers that walked through my door to clue me in on things I was puzzled about. I…
fuck use
will there ever be a fucked use of fuck yous that you don’t respond to with a varied intonation of fuck you? if you deny it’s true, fuck you give a fuck blues give a fuck news your give a fuck shoes…
Scrapbook
He took no pictures. He collected other people’s pictures. He told a story with the fragmentary narrative of a magpie consciousness. Distributed network profundity. Turn on the hose and leave the hose. It is in a glass room with a child in…
Suicide Note
It had a certain taste, blood sprung forth at its touch like zest from a lemon under a blade. Red mist. Someone had wanted to call it Vampire Music, but that was crass, and too blatant for the tastes of those who…