Sunday, 10 July 2016

Lost in Causeway.

Everyday passed by like a stranger on the street. Forgettable and most routinely, ordinary. I wasted my long hours, sat on  a bench and watched the machine that was humanity, spinning it's cogs and turning its wheels. The world surrounded me with an absent mindedness that was pushing me closer to insanity. The chaos consumed my thoughts and I remained a mere shadow of the person I once was. A spectre, lingering amongst the masses, in perpetuity.

Monday, 25 April 2016

The Arsonist

didn't live in a house, I didn't own a car. The little money I earned in mopping other peoples' crap off the floor was wasted on matches and petrol. It was hard for people like me to stay in one place for very long. I spent most of the day in a barren park surrounded by broken wire fence. When the night cast its sheet of darkness over me I was the only one who remained. The lights turned off and the people hid behind the safety of their multi locked doors. The stares of disturbance and the agitated yells disappeared for a while and I was left with my own thoughts. The voices in my head were louder than ever before. The streets were empty and only the leaden sky was left to see who I really was. I sat on a wooden swing and ran my long fingers along the burns scars on my arm.
As a child I used to stare into the open flames. There was something so beautiful about fire, a dangerous temptation for the sick. The flames had a power over me that was impossible to control. The matchsticks made their home in the pocket of my scorched jeans and it was havoc from then on. I had nothing but loneliness and the pleasure that came from all the ashes in my wake to keep me company during the long hours of the day.

I spun a a matchstick between my fingers and smiled at the jerry can between my feet.
Tonight there will be light.” I dreamed of the tall houses before me collapsing in flames. A work of art as it would seem, and I was the artist. To the people in this town I was just that boy who spent his days sitting under a tree in an empty park. But I was so much more than that. I yearned for destruction and turmoil amongst the insanity that surrounded me. This was a new town; they would figure this out soon enough.

I could smell the petrol on my skin. Burning my nostrils, the nectareous odour filling me with a warmth that normal people couldn’t understand. I focused on a house on the street surrounded by yellowed grass, lonesome, and forsaken.
I bet it'd look nicer on fire.” The voice in my head was impatient.
The dry grass swayed softly with the night's breeze. The house glaring down at me menacingly as I paced to its door. I curled my fingers against its cold knob and twisted it until the door groaned open. Before me was a large and bleak room with sickly curtains and flowery wall paper, curled with neglect. The wooden floor boards were coated in saw dust and the windows were shattered. I lifted the can up to my stomach and twisted the cap off.
Let there be light.”
All was silent except for the gurgling of the petrol pouring onto the walls and floor boards. Anticipation and release rushed through my veins like a noxious plague.
Savour this moment kid, take one deep breathe and light it up.” So I did as the voice ordered and took one big breathe.
One.” I pulled out the redheads and picked a match. “Two.” I lit the match. The enslaving rush it gave me never got old. “Three.”I hovered a finger over the head as it emanated its alluring heat and tossed it under the curtains. I watched in wonderment as it crawled up to its drapes and spread across the floor boards.
It was truly beautiful. I could barely tear my eyes away from the bright, sharp flames inching closer to me every second. I spun around and rushed outside the house, the flames licking closer too my heels. I ran across the road and sat myself back at the little wooden swing. Swing swing.
It was always better to appreciate your art from afar. And it was quite a sight. The loud crackling noises filled the neighbourhood, the lights turned on and the doors unlocked. People soon gathered around, keeping their distance from the bright embers as they slowly collapsed, with such grace. I leaned my head on the tree and ran my hands over its harsh bark. I slid the matchbox open and pulled out the last matchstick. I looked up and smiled at the tall tree, envisioning the sound of crinkling leaves. The excruciating screams and gasps of the voices flooded my mind and the arduous silence of the night was gone.

And there was light.” 

Saturday, 27 February 2016

Hello, my name is Panic.

Hello, my name is Panic. I'm the constant heaviness in your mind that never leaves. The sweat from your palms and the trembling of your fingers. I'm the voice that tells you it'll never be okay. My words of torment stick like glue and can never be unstuck. We sleep together, in a tangled web of lies that I've spun and you feed on my deception, the way you would drink a cold soup. Sometimes you'll feel like I've left you. You will feel a sudden feeling of relief, and take one long breathe. But I always come back, I never really leave. I'm the ball in your throat and the harrowing heat that rushes through your body.  And late at night when you're lying in bed, surrounded by the chaos that I've created, I am the tears that roll down your red cheeks and pain that rises up your chest. When you try to scream I'll stop you, when you try to ignore me I'll make you listen. I bring upon you the unbroken feeling of worthlessness and belief that your world is ending. I am the loneliness that you fear countless times a day and the arms that will hold you down. Hello, my name is Panic. 


Tuesday, 9 February 2016


A little boy with bright blue eyes and a strange affinity for butterflies. He wondered off to the big green pastures watching the blue and black butterflies flutter before him.
He watched as the other children stomped around with their big nets, swiping into thin air, the butterflies moving in a mad frenzy, trying to escape the inevitable.
Over the years the grass became drier and the butterflies became fewer, but the little boy would still sit there, watching and waiting.
And just like a big net eventually catches up to a butterfly, age caught up with the little boy. over the years his hair went grey and his dark skin wrinkled like raisins. He sat in the dried and yellow grass that had once been so green and lay on his back, looking up at the bright blue sky. The breeze was soft against his pale cheeks and the sun was shining brightly into his eyes.
He took one last breathe as a little blue and black butterfly fluttered onto his nose. The old man smiled and closed his eyes, and the butterfly flew away.

hello all! Hope you enjoyed this post. This is dedicated to Juan pedro Lamaison who was loved deeply by many.

Wednesday, 3 February 2016


Newspapers sprawled across her bedroom floors and pinned to her creamy white walls. The faces of men and women, circled in red pen, pins through their foreheads. She walks into the bedroom wearing black from head to toe. All you can see is the darkness in her blue eyes.  Her name, is Birdie and she hunts the worst kind of people. She tugs off her balaclava and leather gloves , a bush of curly red hair is revealed, her skin freckled and scarred. She peels off her blood speckled clothes and hurls them onto her bed. Birdie opens the curtain, light dripping into the room, exposing the dust as it floats calmly in the air. She walks up to her decrepit cork board, tearing off the photo of an old man with balding hair and thin brown eyes, like a shark. His face is circled in red pen like all the others. She crosses out the man's face with black pen and places the photo inside her desk draw, along with the large pile of other crossed out people. Birdie saunters over to her laptop and switches her screen on, resting it on her lap. She prints out the document she had left open earlier and waits. A few moments later, her printer begins to whir to life. A page begins to appear, she rests her hands on her desk watching  intently the photo of a middle aged woman appears. Rounded with auburn hair and dark blue eyes, holding a nebulous gaze.
" You look familiar." Birdie remarks to herself as she gazes at the photo, baffled at the unexpected recognition she has with this woman.  Birdie grabs a pen from her desk and circles the woman's face, pressing her photo onto the cork board and stabbing the thin paper with a pin. Her screen lights up, an unopened message appears. Sender, unknown. 'Don't fly away Birdie, or I'll have to clip your wings."  It reads. She pounds the lid shut and pours her old coffee over the laptop. She's been found. Her bottom lip tremble, her hands uncontrollably shake.
"This can't be happening."
Birdie stands up and scans the room with urgency, she can't take much, they could already be on their way. She changes back into her bloody clothes and packs the vitals. gun, cash, pocket knife and most importantly... She scrambles toward the cork board and looks hard into the unreadable eyes of the auburn haired woman, ripping her photo off the pin and shoving it in her back pocket. She knew this day would come. She drops to her knees and pulls out a large petrol can, pouring it's contents over everything. The desk, the curtains, the cork board. Everything. She opens her desk draw and grabs her matchbox. She lights one match, and stares at the little orange flame, before she tosses it onto the petrol soaked carpet. It didn't take long before the flames spread but before they could reach her, Birdie had already disappeared. She had no time to wait. She is no longer the hunter, but the hunted...

Saturday, 30 January 2016


The soft hum of coffee machines and a strong salty scent. A buzzing cafe by the harbour. Luciano had bright blue eyes, light brown hair and the kindest smile. But those who have the gentle smiles have suffered the most. Outside all seems well with Luciano. He exchanges glances with women who admire his allurement, he serves his coffees with a charming simper and would never speak any words short of kind. At least to other people. When the sun began to settle down, the little cafe would close. The hum of the coffe machines disappear and the salty harbour he would leave behind. He would drive home on his little white vespa, that kind smile, lost for a while. He arrives home when the night has arrived, unpacks his things and saunters to the bathroom. A cleaned razor sitting by his sink. He looked at himself in the mirror, and sighed heavily, running his hands under the tap, splashing his face with icy cold water, to bring him back to the hardness of reality. He was finally awake. Bags formed under his big blue eyes. Larger everyday, since it happened. 

Luciano made his way to the kitchen and sat alone on his wooden chair, cigarette kept tight between two finger. His house was cluttered, just like his mind. Clothes strewn around the rooms. Unwashed dishes, empty boxes. There weren't any picture frames on Luciano's wall, except one. A large photo frame of his mother, father and two little sisters, sitting by a beach, together like a family. Happy. A moment captured in time that is lost forever but never forgotten. Luciano could never give up the feeling of being happy, even if he felt it too long ago. 



Black lace up boots, petticoat dress, red lips, dark hair. Amelie was extraordinary in every sense of the word. She clutched her antique fob watch tightly in her pale hand, people gave her strange looks. She looked out of place, but she was here for a reason. Her hazel eyes searched the crowds swarming like bees in the hustling streets of London.                                                                                      

"Tic toc." She whispered to herself."Tic toc." Her pace quickened, she had to make it before it was too late.
Amelie looked up at the sky, the clouds began to darken, big rain drops splattered onto the pavement, time was running out. She ran against the masses. She was running for him, they were running from him. A police car raced past her, loud sirens, flashing lights. Moments later there were screams and gun shots. She was close, but she was out of time. A bank, a wide clearing, a lifeless corpse in the middle of the street. Blood everywhere. Grey eyes, a revolver in his hand. She was too late. Crowds circled around his body, drenched in blood and water. A little tear rolled down her red cheek.
She held her fob watch out in front of her , flat on the palm of her hand.
"Tic toc." She turned the crown of her watch, its hands moving backwards. Amelie looked up at the body that was no longer there. The blood, the sirens, the crowds. All gone.
A young man with choppy caramel hair brushed past her as he made his way to the bank.
"I'm never out of time." She smiled a crooked smile and followed the young man, fob watch clutched tightly in her hand.