Felicity, Serendipity, and the filter-tipped self. (second version)
By James Commins
A figure sat on the doorstep of the house, lighting another cigarette, the other burning its filter in the gutter. In mere moments that was gone too, and another was lit, without there really seeming to be any movement. It was that brief moment between night and morning when time hangs in the balance. Nothing has started to really move forwards yet, the only journeys being made are returns. The air was fresh, and the road glittered with morning dew. Nature and the artifice of man, glittering beneath parked cars. He sat and watched the road glitter. Glitter
Everyday life, every day.
(How the writer who also drew met the artist who also wrote. And vice versa of course)
The rain came down, washing over the city in dark floods, trying to wash away all below, as if God had decided humanity was a mistake, as if Noah had been a lie and Adam didn't belong. The people hurried through the night, scurrying like rats, like insects, like anything but the people they were, with hopes and dreams and wants and desires. But then that was the dehumanizing effect of the rain. Or perhaps it was the dehumanizing effect of the city. Either or both. Maybe humanity was dehumanizing itself, the ultimate expression o
Molly and The Black Lady - an Introduction and background
This story was written in the summer of 1994, a long time before I discovered my love of writing, but it is the first 100% original work I ever wrote. It shows many of the hallmarks of my later writing, in as far as it shows my tendency towards female characters and my fascination with the concept of loneliness and a persons need to find another. I also wish to point out that it was written at the age of 14, and it shows, I was just a child, and it is childish in nature. This also explains some of the grammatical errors, which I resisted the temptation to correct, but I am still very
CLICHE - A CITY AT NIGHT.
The woman walked up to the bar. Shoulder length black hair, green eyes. She was wearing a black cocktail dress, with a jacket slung lightly over one arm. Her legs were long and shadowed by her black stockings. She bought her drink, a Manhattan, and walked across the bar sitting at a secluded booth. Alone. There was a brief flash of light as she lit a cigarette. She inhaled slowly, and exhaled, her chest rising and falling smoothly with the act. I decided that the night could be made to be very interesting. I picked up my own drink and went over to her booth. Sliding into the chair opposite her, I
Ladies and gentlemen, there will be a slight delay on the Victoria line due to an incident at Kings Cross…….
Its not like euphemisms ever hide reality is it?
You can sugar coat it, but then this sugar coating was over an incident involving a two currents, an ex, a bottle of wine (empty, broken) a black cocktail dress, and a moment of insecurity, that may, or may not pass.
The problem is, laying on the tracks, waiting for inevitability as it rushes towards you, welcoming it in fact, only to be pulled back, and saved by fate, snatching you away at that final, and possibly very final moment, it becomes very hard indeed to focus on thin
The old gods are dead.
Or some of them are
To see their replacements, you need not travel far
Or may never travel far enough
Some are ideas, still in the rough
Some are new born, a millenia or so
Others are young, a way to go
Before they are true and manifest
Men quarrel over whose is best
In sport, in screen
In more wars than there has been
And many once were living
Legends, our creedence giving
To actors, stars, the cult of celebrity
Some even made gods of their city
Be it swinging, or a big fruit
We choose them, our desires to suit
The sacred becomes mundane
As the everyday, in glory en-framed
There images, icons, and cl