Trees burn on distant hilltops. We can taste their smoke from here — spontaneous combustion on a listless afternoon, with Eris of high society and her electric books. "I’m afraid we have concerns today." Her rabbit eyes flicker. "Man-eating flowers?" "Yes," she whispers, shimmering, "And women. Someone cross-bred a Venus flytrap with an oak tree."
how vexing - all correspondence will be in compulsory lipograms from now on because a key on my keyboard has broken
my clock drips time like chinese water torture. the pendulum swings from sleep to wake to sleep to wake, and all the while: you.
excuse me while i slip into a sickness among the bones of dreams i've buried here a thousand eyes are smiling in the darkness a thousand knives are waiting, drawing near never to sleep again the waves are lapping gently on the shoreline a lonely moon stares dead from high above i lie upon the sand and make a bed here among the ashes of our dying love never to weep again sorrow won't need to find me tomorrow never return again never return never
This is the Daily Ten. I’m not sure where or how it will end up. I don’t want it to degenerate into drivel, too much. It’s important to set a target, so I’m going to write for ten minutes each evening. I think I’ll start with nonsense and random witterings, like this, and maybe throw in a few made-up words like ‘witterings’, though I guess all words are made-up. Then when I’ve got into the habit I can start to turn my attention towards something more productive, perhaps a short story, or a long one, or even a tall one. So far it’s only been a few minutes and I’ve run out of things to write, but I guess that’s not really true as I’m still writing now, and now, and even now it carries on. Where do the words come from? Where do the thoughts come from? They seem to spring from the shadows through no doing of my own. You never think, ‘Oh I’ll have a thought in a moment,’ because by then it’s too late — you’ve already had one without meaning to. Thoughts are sneaky like that. What can you do? Not much, just observe as they come and go behind your eyes, or your mind, or wherever it is you feel they live out their short lives. Fascinating, not really, but we still have a good four minutes to go. Hmm. Well at least I’ve written something this evening, which is better than not having written anything, as I’ve been not-writing for years. If there was an award for non-writers perhaps I’d make the short list — indeed I’m probably the most prolific non-writer I’ve ever met in my whole life, not that it’s really mine, or anyone’s for that matter, nor is it really accurate to say I’ve met myself. Two minutes left and I think time is slowing down. Stretching out like the piece of chewing gum that just seems to stretch forever until it breaks and gets stuck all over your chin. Chewing gum goes on easily, but doesn’t come off easily. Just like wires tangle themselves up, but never untangle themselves down. What is up with that? Enough for today. Goodnight bed bugs.
‘twas baked by a man who had no idea about hygiene or fixing lawn mowers - but that’s another story, and so it sat on the table looking kind of ill, shrinking in the lamplight. morning came and still no one had touched the little blue hash cake.
it was torture at the inquisition as the butcher moved into position, then sliced, then chopped, then diced, then lopped; the blood-stained walls sustained tradition.
the sky was green but we knew the grass was blue and in between we redeemed our souls, their truth awaken your fear
“And what about you, Margaret, what’s your idea of Hell?” “Ahh, my idea of Hell?… Well… anything sort of gamy… anything with radishes.”
Reverend Green creeps across the frosty grass and crouches below the window. Beyond is panting, pushing, and screaming — the midwife is too busy to notice the window inching open. “Come on Sadie, one last push. You can do it!” Sadie cries out with the effort. The room explodes in dazzling light and smoke and panic. Amid the uproar Reverend Green leaps from the shadows and slides a bowl of Holy Water beneath the newborn. He makes the Cross. “I christen thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” The midwife comes to her senses and gathers up the newborn. As she opens the window wide to clear the smoke she glimpses a figure vanishing into the darkness of distant forest beneath a blanket of moonlight.