Reeking piles of doggerel

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From my outstretched arm
I cast a thought
and watched it explode into a million
teardrops of glistening light.

Refraction changes substance and intention.

It reverberates around
the source,
humming buzzing
cleansing white static.
I thought I heard
my name called
from afar.

But it was simply longing
and aural simulcra.

When stars align

Some things need to be said.

You can not say them. And then they might diminish and fade. And you will never know.
Or you can say them. And you might not get the response you’d hoped, but at least you know.

And just sometimes, in a blossoming microcosm, the stars align.

Muscle Museum

The museum by night is different by far to how it is by day. By day there is the hum of the living, of the bustling of people, of scientists and adminstrators and curators going about their business. There is the throngs of crowds, of university students and private school children alike.

By night the dead rule.

As the group split up- the undead Seamus and completely alive (and plucky) Deirdre taking the main floor and Archie and Kelly the offices above to find the ignoble Dr Noble, another strode through the place, impatiently. His patience was a virtue that had long been disposed. His four pretties were waiting for him, amongst the nest of those considered slightly less pretty, but who chewed flesh and tendon and hair and bone and left only shiny pearly bones.

This night, though, with the humdrum of the blows under the ground; things are different. He was more likely to be discovered, then his worst nightmares will come true. They will come with shovels and torches and possibly devices of execution and they would kill him. It is Noble’s fault. They will come. And then, after he is dead and buried, they will exhume his backyard indelicately, and they will find his secrets. His hundreds of secrets.

Noble and Ignatious Jones had an agreement: Erstwhile would dispose, Noble’s deeds would be hidden. It was a win/win situation

Not any more: New York was roiling under forces just barely masked that the world had yet to see truly realised


The museum by night is far different to how it is during the day. It is easier to hide, and shadows loom larger, and there is no need for the blue visitors passes pinned to coats. There is little politeness and more familiarity, there is almost strangers by day and unrequited lovers by night. There was a police investigation by day and a personal vendetta to save the world by night.

Archie and Kelly stole their way up the familiar by now staircase, Kelly freezing at every creak, every whistle of the breeze along vast corridors, every reflection on shiny wood surface. It occurred to her that she was being silly after all the brave man by her side and she had been through over the last few days. Once or twice, she reached for his arm, just to squeeze it, to make sure he was still there.

As Archie and Kelly reached the corridor to Dr Nobles office, they could see light from under the door. Here they paused, standing in the shadows, silently debating their next steps. It was a short debate, another person was there in the dark museum. A person who approached from the other side and opened Noble’s office door without ceremony. A person in a white lab coat and with a shock of grey hair.


An excerpt from the most amazing co-write — horrors of cthulhu the as yet unwritten tales.

The Accident

There’s a woman shouting and she’s disturbing my dream and I want to wake up and tell her to be quiet but for some reason I can’t speak.

Fade to black.

A terrible wrenching and pain divides me to the core. It is the woman pulling me; I can feel her necklace dancing a tattoo on my closed eyelids. I want to tell her to Stop, it hurts. But I can’t speak, I can’t move myself. I feel myself suddenly free, and I slither onto what feels and smells like wet grass. It hurts, so much.

Fade to black.

I am by the sea. I can hear the waves crashing, I can see them, they are larger than me. This is the first time I have ever been by the ocean. Someone is holding my hand. I look up and it’s my mother. She looks down and when she smiles at me the overwhelming love shouted in my direction nearly makes me cry. Her eyes are red. She has been crying. The wrist of the hand holding mine is bandaged, but I don’t realise the significance. She looks out over the ocean and I follow her gaze and it strikes me that my father has died. I look at my feet, little boys’ feet and scabby knees poking out from under shorts. There is a shining shell that the sea has washed up by my right foot. It is beautiful. I pick it up and carefully place it in my mother’s hand. I hope it makes her feel better.

I feel something pumping on my chest, rhythmically, and then a warm suction at my mouth, forcing air into me. It occurs to me that possibly I am ill or hurt. I try to focus, to remember what I was doing and then it comes back to me – Rhonda, the horrible argument, the words like knives. What were we fighting about? These thoughts come and wash over me lazily, like waves lapping the beach on a warm day. I know there’s something that I should be doing here, somehow helping her, help me, but my mind is immersed in lukewarm water and I can’t force myself to do anything here but ponder idly.

“Breathe, damn you, breathe!” And my chest rises as she breathes for me. I want to tell her that it’s ok, that it doesn’t hurt anymore and that if she just stopped doing what she was doing that I could float away. Somewhere in the distance I can hear a siren and the more shouting voices.

I am standing next to a grave as an old man fills it with its previously purged contents. There is a dull sound as the sods of earth hit the coffin below. I picture my mother’s wrists, politely sewn up and turned just so at the viewing so that her mortal wounds could not be seen. I fancied I could sense them. I am not yet 23. Many of the mourners at the viewing I have not met before. There is a blonde girl there, a couple of years older than I. She spends some time at my mother’s side, before seeking me out.

“I’m very sorry about your mother,” she tells me. I have not seen her before, but as I regard her, I want her. I nod not trusting my voice. She takes my hand and leads me into a small room, closing the door behind her. She leans against the closed door and regards me with a small smile. It is not one of mirth it is frank appraisal. Then, she walks towards me. I meet her half way and pull her to me, fumbling with her undergarments, pulling them from her body. I pick her up and lean her against a desk, where I clumsily and angrily insert myself inside her. I hear her small gasps with each violent thrust and something more, an internal earthquake building. I thrust harder, and harder and she becomes for a moment in my mind separate from me and what we are doing and follow the heady rush of orgasm to completion and then she is back and is in my arms and I am inside her and I am crying, silent hot tears, and in that moment I love that girl and I hate my dead mother.

And then I am vaguely aware of something floating away. A sense of lost

And then there is nothing for time indeterminate.

A bright light, and more shouting, but it’s not the woman shouting, it’s a man, he lacks her delicate frantic touch, and there is a blinding light in first one eye and then the other and the muted sounds wash back to me, first the diluted watercolour sounds, then brilliant oils and then I am there, and it feels like being born again.

“Mr Carlisle?” The man’s face comes into view. And bright lights again, but this time they are fluorescent and I know where I am: in a hospital. I can hear the moaning and sighing and shouting and the internal clanking of the hospital engine. “Mr Carlisle!” he says again.

I manage to moan in reply. The effort is gargantuan, as if I had let loose a loud cry. As I make the pathetic sound, I realise that there is something very wrong. There’s something really important missing, but in my current haze I can’t quite figure out what it is.

“I…” My voice returns slightly, hoarse and scratched, “I’m hurt?” It’s both a question and a statement.

“You were in an accident, Mr Carlisle. You’re lucky to have survived. We thought we lost you a few times. You’ve been asleep for a while.” He peers calculatingly into my eyes.  “How do you feel?”

“Sore,” I suddenly begin to panic, “How long have I been out? What’s happened?”

The doctor is younger than he looks. Emergency room departments have taken their toll. He pauses for a moment, and a beautiful hazelnut haired woman walks through the door. Her face lights up and she cries out.

“Bor! I’ve been so worried!” She lands on the side of the bed and leans forward to kiss my forehead. I reach up to touch her and for the first time I become aware of the IV in my left forearm. The woman is familiar, strongly so, but I can’t place her name yet. Her fragrance invokes recognition just lingering out of reach.

“Hi,” I say gently. She is beautiful. “I’m back.”

Her beautiful, pale, tired face crumples, “I’m sorry, Bor. I’m so sorry…” She trails off unable to continue.

At first I am utterly confused, then it comes flooding back – I have lived this recently – the argument, my tears. Her inability to see what needed to be done to save our relationship. The angry hurt set of her chin. Her enraged shouting at me as I left our house. I should be angry; instead I feel strangely ambivalent. I think I care, but the feelings are struggling surface.  I want them to, I want to show this beautiful creature emotion and I can’t.

Instead, I fake it.

“It’s ok, Rhonda, sweetie,” I tentatively reach out and smooth her hair away from her face. “I’m ok. We’re ok.”

The following morning I am visited by two Police, each official in their uniform. The female has a light brown braid. It occurs to me that I have always thought female police officers slightly masculine. This one is anything but, and I find myself wondering how on earth she could detain felons, her wrists are so small and birdlike.

I have just recounted again my memory of that accident – that is to say very little – the fight, the storm out, her words chasing me after me. The stupid miscalculation. The police woman – Sandy – helpfully fills me in on some of the details that are ghostlike. It seems I am alive now because of the fast work of the woman, whose strong hands and scent I only vaguely remember.

The head nurse comes in and hurries everyone out, and I am alone for the first time, it seems in a long time. I lean back against the pillows, the plastic under the hospital issue crackling under the weight of my shoulders and head. This woman, this good Samaritan, this saviour who disappeared into the night has suddenly become more real to me than anything else and I promise myself that I will find her. This is a promise I know I will keep.