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Category Archives: Short stories

Meet Keith

That’s right, I’m a motherfuckin’ snail.

If ya’ve got a problem with that, ya can fuck right off and complain to ma fuckin’ lawyer. Oh, I forgot: I don’t have one, because I’m a fuckin’ snail, so let’s keep things simple enough for ya fuckin’ amoeba brain to comprehend: mind ya own fuckin’ business. Humans. Arseholes, the lot of yas.

Don’t think that I can’t hear ya commentin’ on ma speed. Ya’re louder than Davina in a fuckin’ blender. What’s the point in rushin’? I’m not on a fuckin’ busy-ass highway, am I? Fuckers all up in ma space, followin’ ma snail trail – yes, it fuckin’ glistens in the motherfuckin’ sunlight. No shit, Sherlock. I’m only tryin’ to cross this empty fuckin’ space – wasn’t askin’ for a crowd of gawping motherfuckers! Absolute fuckin’ joke. Was only goin’ to eat ya shitty lawn anyway. Ya smother ya fuckin’ cripple plants in so much fuckin’ chemicals that I’d melt if I touched ‘em. Ya’re always complainin’ about keep ya fuckin’ lawn short anyway, because mowin’ is too much fuckin’ effort for yas. Boo-fuckin’-hoo; I’m cryin’ ma motherfuckin’ snail eyes out. I mow grass just to fuckin’ survive, ya ungrateful twatbags.

Yeah, that’s right! Sprinkle that fuckin’ salty shit all over me. Fuckin’ Walker’s crisps? Ya dumb piece of shit. Snail bitches love fried potato, motherfucker. Look at me! Off ma fuckin’ tits on salt! If ya had half a fuckin’ brain ya’d have more brains than ya parents fuckin’ put together. Fuckin’ idiot human pixie-dick wanker.

I’m only lookin’ around for a measly fuckin’ bite to eat. I’m fuckin’ starvin’; ma belt keeps fallin’ down ma skinny fuckin’ Kate Moss waist. If I had a waist, that is. Ha! Fuckin’ joker snail, right here. Pipe the fuck down.

Oh, look at this joker. Some sort of young, pink, frilly bitch; talks like a deaf person drowning. Oh I suppose she- bitch is pickin’ me up! Fuckin’ hangin’ in the air, holdin’ me by ma fuckin’ shell. I’d rip her cutesie fuckin’ ponytails out of her scalp if I had arms, the little shit. And look at the rest of ‘em! Fuckin’ eggin’ her on. Eggin’… fuckin’ eggshells… scatters ‘em all over the bloody place that woman does. Would she appreciate me casually scatterin’ fuckin’ razor-blades around her kitchen? I think fuckin’ not! Stupid bitch can- Ah! Fuck! Poked ma fuckin’ eye! Yes, it retracts back into ma fuckin’ angry-ass snail face. Fascinatin’! Yeah, go on, poke the other one, ya dribbling piece of fuck. I’ll gnaw your fuckin’ nose off if y- Fuck’s sake! Oh ha motherfuckin’ ha, I’ve retracted both? Giggle ya fuckin’ heart out, love, I’m fuckin’ blind now.

Oh, so now you wanna fuckin’ feed me, right? You worthless goat-rapist. I’m sure that most individuals wouldn’t be in the best mood to have a fuckin’ meal after being blinded by an breast-feedin’ clinical psychopath. No, I don’t feel like being force-fed fuckin’ grass. Piss off, or I’ll fuckin’ tear out ya throat with ma snail fangs. Would kill ya in seconds, the dangerous motherfuckers would. Kill ya dead, and I’d laugh, ya fucking pig-tailed gape-arse paedo-treat fuck.

Hide in ma motherfuckin’ shell, I will. Yeah, that’s right! Ya deadbeat fucker. Hidin’! From ya! Can’t fuckin’ run ‘cause I’ve got not fuckin’ legs – even if I did ya’d probably rip ‘em out off ma fuckin’ body, ya sadistic little Friday-night cum stain. Aww, don’t cry. Ya fuckin’ pu- What the?! Hey! I’m not a fuckin’ retard! I may be fuckin’ blind  but I can still feel ya fuckin’ shakin’ me like a Michael Jackson kid. Oh, and ya’ve thrown me. Fan-fuckin’-tastic. Yeah, ya’d better cry for ya shitarse Snorlax of a mother; I’d fuckin’ poke ya eyes inside ya fuckin’ skull if ma shell weren’t fuckin’ shattered all over ya dog shit smeared patio. Ya know that arsehole of a feelin’ when ya can feel a crumb in the bottom of ya sleepin’-bag but ya can’t see it or stop it pissing you off? Imagine that except that the bag is ya shell and the crumb is YA FUCKING INNARDS EXPOSED TO MOTHER FUCKIN’ NATURE. Think about that, ya gene-deficient miscarriage of humanity!

Oh, and look at this prick of a dog. I’m in fucking agony, but ya wouldn’t care would ya? Ya pantin’ more than a paedophile in Mothercare, ya fuckin’ freak. Yeah, I’m bleeding. Can’t even see to recon the motherfuckin’ damage, ‘cause I’m still blinded from the little kindergarten whore over there. I’ll slap yas both ‘cross the face with ma massive snail cock, you fuckin’ coons. Lookin’ for a quick snack are we, Dog? I see. You won’t forget this one. Come on then, ya cunt.

COME AT ME BRO.

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Posted by on March 7, 2012 in Creative Writing, Short stories

 

Fox’s Locket

The hairs on the back of her delicate neck stand on end, singed by the intense heat chasing her through the elm wood. Trailing, chestnut hair blurs into the mix of thick fog and pitch smoke.

The sky is burning.

The clouds are outlined with harsh moonlight on one side and flame on the other. A deep, monotone roar floods through the trees, pushing the girl onward, as fear tears at her clothes, at her hair, and at fingers that bleed from the bramble hedge. But she runs, and fear loses its grip as she sprints through the undergrowth.

Her eyes are fixated ahead; feet barely make contact with the barren dirt as she weaves silently through the maze of bough and trunk. Her dress, once pale blue, is streaked with soot, and snags on the ragged surface of the crippled roots as she stumbles; dry leaves rattle through the aching boughs of the ancient elm.

*

The trees are growing denser; it’s difficult to run. She slows to a walk, caring not to trip on the rough, bark-clad serpents, rising and falling into the black earth.

The trees subside, abruptly. Claustrophobic dark is replaced with naked, vulnerable space. A clearing as large as her garden… fenced with forest and blanketed in fog.

The sky still burns.

A fox is sat, blood-hued, casting a bold shadow on the scuffled twigs and dirt. The fur blazes defiantly, fire-like in the crashing waves of sharp moon-glare. A small locket hangs from its neck, nestled in its rich, warm coat, glinting as a precious jewel, liquid silver in the midnight light. The fox stares at her briefly; eyes mirror the flame climbing, reaching, over the tree-line behind her, before it turns and scampers across the clearing, merging into the shimmering mist.

She barely hesitates before leaping after it. Milky fog swirls excitedly, spinning in graceful, lazy spirals, contrasting against the midnight black. She barely has time to negotiate the dense wave of trees as the the shroud curtain opens to reveal the border of the clearing. She bursts through, determined.

Where are you?

Pinprick glimpses of red fur blink through narrowest of gaps, carrying her onwards.

Faster. Closer.

She can make out the most delicate twinkle from the locket, as it follows the erratic path set by its carrier.

It is close. Faster!

The trees break open, white light pouring forth into her widened eyes. She halts, and shields herself, and the glare melts away. She hears a gentle trickling, and her head falls to face the source. Crystal water washes over neatly buckled, moss-stained, bramble-scratched shoes. It cools her ankles. She crouches, perfectly calmed, and unbuckles one black shoe; then another. The stream caresses her pained feet, and soothes, rushing between her toes.

The red glow on the trunks has dimmed to an ambient warmth.

She knows this stream, and looks fondly over the creek she had only two days-past visited with her mother. She can see her perched on that stump, laughing at her daughter as she splashes amongst the pond-grass and polished pebbles. The willow fronds sway, languid, teasing at her hair.

The girl blinks, shaking her head to and fro, shaking free that stubborn memory. White beams pierce the canopy, penetrating the blanket of calm; shunning the hopeful dream. The water ripples, light refracting, splitting as it passes through the mixture of stream and tears. She shakes loose the final, resistant droplets, and looks up the creek.

Fox… locket! Please don’t run!

He runs.

She darts, swift and silent as an errant breeze. She slips over wet-stone and moss-clad root barefoot, toes gripping the innocent, fallen willow tufts as she scrambles around the shallow waterfall. Her dress is soaked; the soot has all but washed free; the ragged hem instead coloured a navy blue by the stream. Her hair has been caught in the frantic dash through the water; it clings wetly to her cheeks, droplets slipping diagonally away as she gives mad chase, once more, to her fox.

He has to stop. He’s scared. I’m scaring him.

But he is gone.

She is lost, but keeps running, regardless.

*

She is crushed by the pitch-dark of the dense elm; solid trunks draw closer together with each long leap. There is no sign of her fox, anymore. No silver glint from the locket. Clawed boughs grasp her face and exposed shoulder; her dress has a tear, running its length and continuing down her calf. There is no more red glow from behind.

No more tears.

She bursts through a final wall of foliage; it is soft. She falls; knees collide sickeningly, the deep-red and pale-blue tattered remains of her dress offering no protection as the skin is ripped into by bone-cold gravel.

She gasps, but bites her lip. Teeth clench solidly, holding back a cry; her face screws up.

No more tears.

A clearing has opened its arms, once more, to her. It is dissimilar to the other. The air is clear and light, and there is no fog to curtain the light green foliage dotted around the distant edges. The clouds no longer burn silver and red, but are pastelled a delicate pink, thrown by the face of the rising sun. The harsh moon is muted in the warm rush of near-morning.

A pool lies in the centre of the silent space; it adopts many shades, as light cascades from the sky, leaping from lush green tree-leaves and silver from the shining rocks.

It’s him.

The fox lies, curled, on a bed of rich, soft grass. His head lies still, sad eyes peek over the thick fur of his tail as it wraps around his harmless form. His silhouette is bordered gold, luxurious red fur catching the warm light – glowing. His tail sweeps slowly outwards, revealing a pearly glow in the shadows…. The locket.

He’s calm now. He’s not afraid anymore.

She steps forward tentatively.

We’re not afraid anymore.

She kneels down, wincing ever-so-slightly as her raw knees press on the earthy bed. The fox edges his snout towards her leg, and gently cleans the blood from her wounds. She reaches down to his neck, and unclasps the locket from the narrow collar nestled in the tufts of long, warm fur.

She firmly clicks it open.

Two ornate silver patterns frame two pictures. One shows the girl crouching beside her fox, sitting, his tongue tasting the air. They’re in front of her beautiful, thatched-roof cottage-home.

Before….

No.

The other was taken by the stump at the creek. Her mother…

She sniffs. No more tears.

… her mother, beaming, hands clenched by her daughter’s. Happy.

She closes the locket, clips it back onto her fox’s collar and lies down, pulling herself close to him. She buries her head with his, and cwtches him as the sun smiles across the pool.

 
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Posted by on December 12, 2011 in Creative Writing, Short stories

 

Library

£20 fine.

Books returned,

Fine unpaid.

Running.

 
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Posted by on December 1, 2011 in Creative Writing, Short stories

 

Filthy

You filthy slut.

Smothered in drippings from many a mouth.
Opened by many a hungry pair of hands.
No, I don’t care if you only serve after eleven.
I’m not going to be here that long anyway.
But you’d like that, wouldn’t you?
Disgraceful.

Look at you,
Sat seductively on the greasy table,
Catching the eyes of passersby,
Offering great deals
On quick thrills
Soon passed.
Yes, I can see you’re cheap.
Despicable.

No, I’m not going to “Check in”;
I wouldn’t publicise my shame.
Not that  you would care,
Flashing your sides at me.
Isn’t one guilty pleasure enough?
Pathetic.

I’m only here for a drink, anyway.

You filthy menu.

 
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Posted by on November 18, 2011 in Creative Writing, Poetry, Short stories

 

See, gulls!

I watch these creatures, chasing bread thrown and bread-throwing children across the park.
Robbing them of their happiness.
More like robin them, I muse, pleased at my ornithological pun.

Suddenly: nothing.
A blanket of deathly quiet falls like a numbing fog; the gulls melt into the now overcast sky above.
The childrens’ laughter stops; winter blows a chill through the green.
A single, clichéd swing creaks pretentiously.

I can already sense their eagle eyes.

I walk, briskly, on my way.
Sentries posted on high,
Scaling roofs inaccessible to the humans.

They call to each other.
My footsteps fall faster. The calls grow louder.

Hiding, they merge into the borders of my vision, blending into their surroundings with unnerving skill.
One cooes with the pigeons.
Another sits in the bush, ghillied. Undetectable.
A third weaves through the undergrowth on its belly.
A snake disguise.
Intriguing.

I catch the sight of one on my right, stretching its wing.
More like ostriching its wing.

A sharp shriek.

I look up, tentatively.
They’re circling me.
I would say like vultures, but they’re seagulls.
Regardless, they’re getting a good bird’s eye view.

And now they’re smirking. Quite an achievement, considering beaks are notoriously difficult to manipulate into smirks, I consider.
But they are mocking me, nonetheless.
Mockingbirds, if you will.

Their eyes narrow.

I draw my coat around me; a vain effort to shield me from their glare.
It’s as though they can sense what I’m thinking about… about them.
I feel rather threatened.
Close to running.
Chickening out.

They shift around aggressively. They settle further ahead, behind and around me.

I spot a mother with her son. The child hasn’t yet seen the mass of gulls, surprisingly.

They’re surrounding me.
What’s ruffled their feathers? I ponder.

The circle closes.

Is it… the bird-related puns I’m thinking of?
No, it can’t be.
That’s ridiculous.
I suspect something else is going on, influencing these animals.
Foul play has to be considered, or…

Fowl play.

Screams and shrieks! Goosebumps form on my the back of my neck.
They charge from all angles, talons drawn; razor beaks slicing through the air.
I panic.
Help.
Someone.
Please, dear God, help me.

Just before I accept my fate, I see the mother and son once more.
The sudden rush of movement and deathlust charge seems to have awoken the otherwise oblivious child from his coma of stupidity. He points gleefully at the birds.
“Look mumma! Seagulls!”
“Yes, son,” she replies.
The corner of her lip twitches, and curls upwards into a mischievous smile.
“See, gulls.”

Silence falls once again.
A thousand feathered heads turn in unison to face the unfortunate woman.

I run.

Credit for the fantastic pun “See, gulls” goes to Charming EC.

 
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Posted by on November 4, 2011 in Creative Writing, Short stories

 

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The Giraffe and the Lion

A lion observes, patiently, from the rock.
I watch from the corner of my eye, my long, elegant legs splayed as I drink cautiously at the water’s edge. The lion never makes her move, seemingly as cautious of me as I to her.
The same story, repeated day after day.
Yet she never gives up.
She’ll occasionally comment on the thrill of the chase – how zebra is too easy a target, and the meat too tough. She longs for a sweeter, more tender prize. So giraffe, supposedly. Me.
It does get a tad repetitive sometimes, always keeping one eye on this solitary, hungry lion.
Why does she persist?
Why do I endure her?
Why am I a giraffe?
I lie down, and close my eyes. I beckon to her with a single, distant hoof, accepting the inevitable.

She approaches, slowly. I can hear her heartbeat quicken.
But then stops.
I feel her breath blanket my snout. Her gaze burns hotter than the sun.
What’s taking her so long?
Her warm fur brushes against my exposed stomach, then silence.
I open my eyes; her body lies parellel to mine.
She seems satisfied, and explains how, over time, she has become… drawn to me. How such matters as sustainance began to pale in comparison. Her physical hunger hasn’t subsided, but she can’t….
She moves closer; her breathing slows to a purr.
We lie together in the heat, hearts warmed.

 
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Posted by on November 4, 2011 in Creative Writing, Short stories

 

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