Catalyst -working title-She sat in front of the screen and wished she still owned the type-writer she threw away with her stuffed toys and childish ideals, craving the satisfaction of seeing words appear that couldn't be erased. Midnight had fallen long ago with a dewy thump that had startled her, but now she was used to the weight of the night wrapped around her. Frowning at the screen, she lost herself in the blankness of an empty document before shaping and squeezing the first words.I think we've grown apart.Wide eyes blinked, and something deep inside her felt the words fall into the pit of her stomach, where they belonged. Bitter and heavy, the way she liked it when she felt herself sinking into herself. Words were crammed into dark corners in her room, commas spilling out of drawers and ellipses trailing across her bedroom floor from underneath her bed. Every now and again, she would re-arrange her space, clearing out abandoned vernaculars from the corners of her ceiling with a duster before mo
Irrational NumbersI wait for the moments when 1+1=1, the glorious inequalities preserved forever in the formaldehyde of my mind. While she sleeps, I peel them, layer by layer, until the duvet is covered in dust. Pulsating moments quiver, but once ripped apart, they reveal nothing more than shrivelled seconds, naked and twitching before my eyes. One by one, they stop twitching until they crumble away into nothing. I brush the dust off the covers, and a stray hair off her sleeping face. She has not stirred.She pretends to understand my obsession with numbers, but when shes asleep, she cant hide. I prop open her eyelids with my fingers and worry at the apprehension I find. I tell my wife I love her twenty times a day but the beauty of the constancy of twenty in relation to the constancy of our love fails to touch her. She replies to questions with answers; I, with more questions. There are times I doubt our compatibility, but our common factors take precedence over our irrational coupli
Coffee Cups and Insincerity"But sir," said he, pushing aside coffee cups and insincerity to make way for the truth. "You have no legs."He hovered for a while, on the cusp of apologising for his sudden outburst. Gravely, I regarded him, and grey eyes met brown. The grey eyes turned away and looked to the others for support - but they were met with stony silence. At long last, I replied that I was indeed aware of the pre-mentioned fact. In fact, had I not been aware that I have no legs since they were forcibly removed from my body following an unfortunate incident with a Toyota, I might have guessed after realising that I was in a wheelchair and, without it, was three feet tall. My wry sense of humour regarding the accident failed to amuse the panel of pale-faced interviewers, and they stared back at me like four ivory lollipops."But you're applying for the post of PE teacher," he blustered.I checked my CV, examined my name-tag, glanced at the job-specification sheet and pronounced this to be true. T
InsomniacSleep eludes me, water slipping through fumbling fingers in the darkness.The laughing clock sits on the shelf, spilling luminescence.Red-rimmed eyes watch religiously while behind my backI strain for dream-drops in the dark. The clock mustn't see.My bed was a boat but time has worn holes in its hullAnd now I am drowning in a sea of sweat.I check the clock - it's past the witching-hour.Perhaps I'm the only one awake. I twitch like a rabbitUnderneath twisted coverlets as thoughts wheel in circles,Dizzy and distorted in the heavy dark.Theres a weight on my chest, a gremlin sitting on my heart.The clock agrees and marks a minute, satisfied.I scowl at it, and the clock slows to remind me - I'm not in control here.The night is ruled by Fear alone.The clock points and laughs.
Intimacysoftly, midnight fallssoft petals stroke softer eyesthe lovers entwine
Out of Inspiration? Nuh-uh.Out of Inspiration?Not for long. Here are 200 inspiring things to help you on your way to writer-hood. Pick on, or combine two or more. Have fun!Characters.1) An old woman with a grudge.2) A young, aspiring musician who lost her hands in a car accident.3) Character in complete denial about something trivial.4) A business-man with a secret - he's actually a punk rocker.5) A gay couple who want children.6) An old man, driven insane by the sound of his pocket-watch ticking.7) Main Character wants nothing more than to be a hero. Do they achieve their goal?8) A deaf and blind piano-tuner.9) Character grows out his hair, but has the unfortunate side effect of being the spitting image of Jesus.10) Young teenager hopelessly in love with his best friend.11) Character with a mortal fear of ginger people.12) A young girl with synesthesia.13) Ninja with a height complex.14) Wacky teacher with blue hair.15) Child with elective mutism.16) Artist living in a
Three WordsThree Words.She sits, silent.The silence between us is so tangible that I could touch it if I tried but my fingers are laced together in tense, white structures that mock the atmosphere of indifference that Im trying to project. I havent said anything since those final, damning words that shattered her world. And neither has she.Lips open, then close again. One strand of hair has fallen down across her face, and its then that I realise that shes crying tears streaming silently down her cheeks and splashing into her coffee. Automatically, I reach forward to wipe them away, before remembering that I gave away that right a long time ago. Instead, I take my coffee and take a long, hard draught that burns the back of my throat. I dont wince.How long?Does it matter?She falls silent again. An apology hovers on my lips I didnt need to sound so harsh, but, on the other hand, she wont want kindnes