Friday 28 February 2020


Garth shook the bottle in his hand and the funny little humans - pickled for eternity - were so compacted they hardly moved.  He found it hard to comprehend that a species so primitive would be viviparous, thinking that they surely would lay eggs. 

His father had given him a passel of the ugly little things for his fifth birthday, and he had watched them develop and multiply in the glass farm that had sat on his bedroom desk, this for what seemed the eternity of his childhood.  He had found their mode of procreation odd then.  But then they were mere insects and intellectually dulled life forms, but yet seemed industrious and he had marvelled at their efforts to achieve betterment, this always thwarted by their predilection for battle and want. 

It was in his late teens that when thinking of the dire straits of his world, of overpopulation and resulting food shortages, he had considered these little humans might be a possible source of protein - a bar snack maybe - and his idea had progressed into that of pickling them in red hot spices.  He loved the way they looked in the bottle, reminding him of foetuses bathing gently in amniotic fluid awaiting birth. 

"Garth the quondam loser - now the man of the hour" he sighed happily.  He picked one out.  "Hello ugly" he grinned as he popped the tender morsel in his beak.  Money money money, I’m in the money! Winner winner winner,  I’m in the money!

(Meanwhile, back at the factory, his dad, the CEO of one of the world’s largest manufacturers of pesticides, almost burst with pride as production began of the new super-duper Humandead, a 100% guaranteed killer of the human bugs that ate the crops that should fill his belly, the fact that it killed all the other bugs that pollinated said crops mattered to him not.  Who gives a toss, he thought as mental images of £ signs rushing into his bank filled his stupid little head.  Who gives a toss?)

Anna :o] 

For Brendan at openweal open link weekend #9  – cheers Brendan

Thursday 20 February 2020


Death will come unbidden,
it will not come today
it will come tomorrow.  

He will be tomorrow’s ghost.  

He half expects it,
his mind played out its scene a hundred times before.   
He cannot envision pain
rather seeing blood spill
from imagined gaping wounds. 
His wish is if and when it comes
it will be quick. 

It is.

This theatre, this theatre of war,
he plays but a minor role;
he is expendable, no glory in his death,
no rapturous applause 
at his final curtain call.

There will be no homecoming,
no coffin draped in national flag. 
His remains are no remains at all,
mere fragments scattered on a foreign land,
fragments that putrefy and leach into the soil.

He is here, on this hillside,
his life extinguished where this tree now stands,
he is part of it,
it absorbed his memory
tapped it through its searching roots,
its twigs and branches now his arms and hands.

He is unaware
as his leaves turn blood-red and fall;
it is the cycle of things,
lines quite never understood,
lines never learnt in war. 
He has become the Earth. 
It is the nature of things.

Anna :o]

An oldie, resurrected and shared on Open Link Night at dVerse - cheers for hosting Lillian!

Also shared with the good folk on Writers' Pantry #8 at P&SU. hosted by the lovely Magaly - cheers Magaly!

Image:  Courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons:

Sunday 16 February 2020


She had heard it all before.  "Déjà moo.  Déjà moo," she sneered in a dreary bored tone that perfectly reflected her present feelings for him.   Bastard!  Bastard!  Bastard!  “You drink too much and I hate you when you’re like this!” he had said as he pushed her away.

She had loved him and still did, oh how much she still wanted him, arsehole that he was.  Like her, he was a member of the burgeoning community of ad hoc families that were spreading like an unwanted disease in the empty houses that littered the right side of town.  The more the squatters moved in, the more those who considered themselves respectable moved out.

He didn’t understand that drink sharpened her mind, made her more creative, esemplastic as her diverse extraordinary thoughts melded into one.  He didn’t realise that she needed the drink to create her masterpiece.

She gazed at him scornfully as he lay stoned sleeping on the bare mattress, sharing his bed with fellow half-stoned druggies, life’s freeloaders and gypsy hearts that inhabited their sleazy little world.  Bloody hypocrite!

Bastard, bastard, bastard!, she thought as she staggered over to the dark corner that served as her “office” slugging at the bottle that served her imagination.  Bastard, bastard, bastard!  I’ll show ya!  I’ll write the damn book!    She took the grubby sheet of A4 and slid it into the old pink typewriter and her fingers began touch typing, tapping out her masterpiece.

Capter One

Christine decide yjsy djr epi;f yitm dkre[o’fyoymjker … … … …

… … … …

Anna :o]

(This is not about me she said (hic!))

Shared with the good folk at the Writers Pantry #7 at Poets and Storytellers United, hosted by the lovely Sanaa.- cheers Sanaa!

Image:  Courtesy of Flickr  Creative Commons, "drunk unicorn" by Tom Frisch is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0