Ocean Palm Hotel

He hadn’t moved all afternoon, guitar cradled against his chest. He’d played a note every now and then but mostly he just ran his fingertips along the strings as he watched people pass by below. He peeled its wooden body from his skin as he slouched a little further down on the lounge chair, an...

Pathos

 

Trains and Tutus

Ryan’s heart sinks when he hears the whistle. He hasn’t even reached the escalators yet, there’s no way he’s going to make it. He’ll never live it down if he's late and misses the show. But his feet keep moving forward, over and down the metal steps, too hard to stop once momentum kicks in....

Flash: Rooftops

'You can see everything from up here.' I grab for Jimmy's shirt as he leans forward, hips against the ledge and his top half leaning out, looking down to the street three storeys below. 'Geez, Jim. Come on. Quit fooling around.' I yank him back, hard as I can. We have a lot of gear...

Flash Series #2

Flash Series #2 '..'Babe, why is your shirt on backwards?' Such a simple question. But she didn't have an answer. Not a reasonable, logical answer, other than that was how she'd put it on. Not on purpose, of course...'

Flash Series #1

No one else is awake. It's just me and her. Me sitting on the back step. She crouched in the forest of grass. Black velvet fur. Ears standing straight up and pointed. Her glass bead eyes look like those of my childhood bear. But she isn't a bear. She's a bunny. A wild rabbit. I...

Writing Journal 17/01/18

FWJ #10 '..You asked me all the places I want to go, and I gave you my list. You asked me why, and I told you. I stared at your face, not hearing a word I was saying...'

Writing Journal 16/01/18

FWJ #9 Those deep and meaningfuls that always take you somewhere special.

Writing Journal 14/01/18

FWJ # 7 '...They were only half open and heavy, but her eyelids still made each blink seem effortless. She'd woken up late after the weirdest dream...'

Writing Journal 13/01/18

FWJ #6 '.. In the navy room, light from the street lamps frame the curtains, bursting orange and casting shadows across her limbs and curves...'

Prosopagnosia

One word. Thirteen letters. She can feel them cascading, tripping off her tongue as she sounds each syllable. She feels it double into twenty-six years. Feels it fold itself into her being. Comfortable in her discomfort. Face value. Face blind. Facial confusion of her own doing. Knowing not whether to smile, to frown, to turn...