I Come Here to Destroy!

The Psycho

maxwelljay — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 11:15:15 +0000

You wake up. Miniscule flocks of strange birds are pecking your insides out. You go ‘Yah!’
Then you wake up.
And you feel detached. At peace. Part of another, more fluid, supernatural world. This can’t last, you tell yourself. This can’t last. Your nose starts to run. You blow it into some kitchen roll. It runs again. ‘See?’ you shake your head sadly.
The cat stands at the window, barely acknowledging the hundreds of small birds feeding on the seeds scattered across the frozen mud.
‘Puss…puss!’ You go.
And the cat propels itself into a bounce. You brush it with the hard, wire brush that it loves. You don’t understand how it can enjoy the little needles across its back but it does. Its purr resonates through its body, up into the brush handle and tickles your palm.
You look at the clock and it says something shit.
Then you drink your fifth cup of tea and slice the top of an itchy insect bite.
The cat sits at your feet, staring up at you. You notice how its eyes are not centered normally, with one seeming to want to look away from the other.
‘Stop giving me the psycho.’ you say.
‘Meeeeeoow!’ it booms back.

Tagged: blah blah blah blah, experimental fiction, fiction, fiction blog, flash fiction, flash fiction blog, micro fiction, new micro fiction, writing blog

Offside

maxwelljay — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 11:12:48 +0000

(A dark hallway. The radio is on. No words exchanged in several hours. The dog yawns on the welcome mat, looks up at the letterbox, then at its owners and lays back down. The news pumps misery all over the carpet.)

Ruth: How was it today?

(She asks but doesn’t care. She scratches her belly and squeezes her eyes shut and yawns. Then she looks around for the light switch.)

Ian: No, don’t.

(Ian is in the cack. He has sort of fallen in love with this new woman who’s started at work. This new woman likes one of the younger men. Ian hates the younger man. And he hates the new woman. He loves her though.)

Ruth: Okay…alright.

Ian: I’m just saying.

News: …several occasions this year and the rift that has been created is expected to worsen in the coming months…

(She puts the remote control down and stares through the walls. The flowers lose a few more petals onto the window sill above their heads.)

Ruth: I’m off to bed.

Ian: I’ll be up in a minute.

(He staggers down to the basement and finds his old notebooks. They are filled with love letters he never sent. He wonders where they are now, these women he loved but could never say. Darts of light flutter around the shadowy walls.)

Ruth (from upstairs): Can you switch off the lights?

Ian (to himself): They’re already off.

Tagged: experimental fiction, fiction, fiction blog, flash fiction, married, micro fiction, new flash fiction, new micro fiction, Prison, prose, quick fiction, Radio

Deadbeat Haircut, Sofa, TV, Death, The End of Hope…Hip-Hip!

maxwelljay — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 20:47:41 +0000

Same old.

But.

New. But mouldering and off. Sad skin. And flesh of powder. Run for the hills. Don’t look back. They will forget about you quicker than the changing of the seasons. It was not you they wanted anyway. And if they are reading this then they shouldn’t be. They should be getting on with their fucking life.
Just.

Like I.

Am.

Tagged: Death, Dream, experimental fiction, macro fiction, micro fiction, new fiction, new writing, poetry, writing blog

Tether

maxwelljay — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 14:31:46 +0000

Not to mention the gravel in the fish bowl. You can’t imagine how these people live. I’m telling you, this is just the beginning. I saw a couple of the kids playing with a rainbow in the week. I don’t know how they got it. One of the bigger kids had managed to tether it and they were just prodding and poking this poor thing in full view of everyone. I mean it’s not good for everyone else who has to live around here. We thought the last lot they moved out were bad. You give people a place to live and they just ruin it for everyone else. They’d even messed around with the plumbing. And the taps started running upwards. Everyone had flooded ceilings. We all know what it’s like to have a damp summer, but this was awful. Then it was the electrics. Somehow, don’t ask me, one of them knew how to rewire the electrics. When they switched off their lights it became night. And then they started to play with the switches and it would be on, off, on, off all day. Or I should say day. I don’t know, it would be day, night, day, night, day. It sounds unbelievable but when you have to live with it it’s real. A real nightmare. And the mother has no control over them either. Just lets them do what they want. I heard one of them on the phone to a senior partner of a large private investor the other day. Cooking up some plan to turn some continent into a huge farm owned by Wetern multinationals. I mean, it’s not on is it. I tell you, give an inch and they take a mile. A sodding mile. I’m going to write a letter to the council. Then they’ll sit up and take notice. You watch.

Tagged: blah blah blah blah, experimental fiction, flash fiction, macro fiction, micro fiction, minute fiction, skinny fiction, stream-of-conciousness

Recipe for Soup II

maxwelljay — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 20:45:03 +0000

The final hours, the complicated ones, those which corrode the sense of who we might be; who tell us who we are, for better or worse. Each tick of the clock sends shivers down the spine. And as they eyelids grow more and more heavy, the air thickens like a dense soup. One drop of which could knock a man out in seconds. Falling to the floor as though he were made of metal and the world was a tremendous magnet. Having the time to do what we want is a luxury. Having work to do, whether it’s sorting out paperwork, clearing a space for dinner or writing letters to people who have disappeared from view, is a necessity. The wine bottle was filled with dead flies. The clock counted the number of times he thought about her. Plans were made for the escape. The mind was set to the task. An open landscape, the sky a beautiful gradient of cerulean blue into salmon pink. An expansive desert with jagged rocks protruding in what look like deliberate patterns. And a swarm of spheres oscillating above them. The air resonates with a symphony dedicated to morning, noon and night. The sounds disappear when the mind is aware of them, then quickly they snap back once it treats them as a part of the great play. The sand is a brilliant white, made purple by the mixture of colours in the azure. The hours do not carve their certainty here. The mantle of knowledge has no place in the zone of emptiness. That it exists is uncertain. Though the mind is tired, it treads confidently upon the pulverized sand made of ancient sea shells. Small grains of sand, whipped up a faint breeze, a thought, a panic, fizz against the rough shafts of the rock. Tick, tock, tick, tock. The pan boils; as each bubble explodes, small droplets of the soup fall into the vortex. The pen nib snaps. Ink sprays across the page. The smell of old meat, fresh flowers and blind panic fill the nostrils. With the blunt end of the pen, pouring with oily, black liquid, he writes:

“mouthwash – paracetamol – smoothie”

Tagged: experimental fiction, fiction blog, flash fiction, flash fiction blog, light, micro fiction, new micro fiction, short fiction, stream-of-conciousness, Words, writing blog

2011 – So What? – Part I

maxwelljay — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 18:44:30 +0000

There have been a few moments in 2011 that have made me want to shit my life through a straw at the heavens. Many times when I have seen the phantom plane ticket. Times when my feet have been constantly restless. Embarrassingly so. But as a year, it’s been fairly pffft as far as I’m concerned. Fine. The previous one reared it head like a twenty-foot monster in the shape of a demonic three-year-old. And fucking terrifying that was. Destroyed everything including a special temple I had built to commemorate the life of an excellent, but unknown, poet. No matter. One dusts ones self down and carries on, doesn’t one? And so, as 2010 hit its declivity, it was with a profound sense of unease that I bobbed upon the waters of the late December down time. You could find me stationed at the local. My weapons: a pint of strong, continental lager and, when there was minimal risk of losing my seat, a packet of full-flavoured cigs. Occasionally I’d see some shifty figure lope past the window and convince myself that it was a scout. Yes, 2011 had employed scouts and was sending them out into the world to scan, tag and retrieve the data on every poor sod who hadn’t had the sense to lock themselves in their flats. In the far reaches of my noodle, I felt sure that, if it was going to happen there was nothing I could do about it. Hiding would only prolong the panto of persecution. Out in the open, at least I could see their face. Inevitably, though, I’d end up chatting up some girl or be part of a group of lager laughs. If 2011 had busted through the door in front of strobe lighting and dry ice, I’d have been none the wiser. Imagine being sat in a pub, bladder too full, an uncomfortable build of beer bubbles in your colon, and they announce the four-minute warning. That new year’s, like this one, I’m sat behind my curtains armed with this typer and watching to see what unfolds.
And I’ve not ruled out the stay puft marshmallow man.

Tagged: 2011, blah, blah blah blah blah, detritus, end, fiction blog, flash fiction, flash fiction blog, new flash fiction, new micro fiction, new writing, new years eve, summary, writing, writing blog

Bobby

maxwelljay — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 17:28:48 +0000

He opened his eyes to slits. Then he raised his head and licked his lips and yawned. He was dizzy. His bed had been made out of the garden, though he did not know why he was there or where he was. The leaves flapped and crumpled as he moved to steady himself, then stretch his body into a state of readiness. He was surrounded by plants and shrubs: rhododendron, azalea, honeysuckle. Small flurries of light buzzed before his eyes. He threw himself to the floor and buried them under the fallen leaves. His nose picked up a scent. He followed it. In a clearing there was a big, stone table upon which was laid a book. He nudged the book off the table and the table sank into the grass with the sounds of crackling fat and twisting timber. He whimpered. The sun hung above the tips of the trees, full of courage and power. Light beamed from gaps in the woods. His little form seemed ready to burst with fear. Birds hummed and zipped in the air before him. The scent was weaker now. Then, he heard a whistle. Then another. A stick hurtled through the air and caught him on the back of the neck. He yelped. His chest lowered down to the woodland floor, his tail pointed to the sun and his teeth emerged, pointed and bright. The sun poured power and courage into his quivering body until he was straining to hold himself back. A dark form stepped between a shaft of light. His claws dug deep into the earth and he leapt at the silhouette, burying his teeth into it.
‘Bobby…’ the voice gurgled; blood bubbling from its pale, trembling mouth.

Tagged: experimental fiction, flash fiction, flash fiction blog, macro fiction, new flash fiction, plant, short story, short story blog, Sun

WE ARE YOUR FRENDS!

maxwelljay — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 13:28:25 +0000

Shocking day. Only three, drab colours outside. Flesh tint, bauble, cadaver. Snuggle down on the knife edge, make yourself look presentable, think of her, he says to himself. Inhale the smoke, let it waft over the hole where the tooth used to be. Feel the deep sting. If it says 24 hours on the pamphlet, the 24 hours it is. This pain is normal. After all, they say so and they have qualifications. Gorgeous George lick his lips before diving into the pool of dreams. He frolics there until delirious. His dripping body brings down buildings. From the outer ionosphere, the planet is heard to crack. The kind of sound that seems to slice between the two halves of the brain. Chocolate milk, chocolate milk, drink it all away with the chocolate milk.’ Then spend unknown currency on a neon whore. Rain the notes over her body. When she blinks, so does the light in the room. Small vehicles beep each other. The smell of the market is picking up. Men and women try on costumes. He stares down at himself: mostly charity shop clothes, mostly charity shop thoughts; platitudes that gouge out his soul. The light fabrics draped across the many, unknown surfaces begin to undulate in the breeze. Her tummy draws in as she takes a deep breath. The ribs emerge starkly beneath the neon. ‘Want me to close a window babe?’ She asks. ‘You’re the one whose cold…’ he says, putting out the cigarette on his hand. ‘Oh, god! Doesn’t that hurt?’ He folds more of the notes into paper aeroplanes and aims them between her legs. She lays there, bored, while he does this. Voices rise up from the street. ‘No, just leave it there.’ ‘Okay, yeah. But no more of the other ones, we can’t take them. It’s not up to me.’ ‘Ham and fries and pineapple smoothies, come one ladies, come on gents.’ ‘Just look it up in doodle…’ He wonders doesn’t it annoy her, all the empty babble. No, it doesn’t, she says. ‘Do you want to do it or not?’ she says. ‘We are doing it.’ he says. He says he doesn’t want to be alone. Funny, she says, funny how our desires can be so different. The is a mirror opposite him. The reds and oranges inside the room manage to make him look healthy. Though he sees that he has shaved badly. He reached into his pocket and gave her a few more of the bills. She looked up at him not knowing exactly what that meant. Then he walked out.

On his way down the grimy, black stairs he slipped a couple of times on something. Then he walked around the market. Young men and women were dressed as each other and were shrieking with delight. A young girl grabbed him, shouted a name. Then almost threw him away upon realising her mistake. Then she saw the money bulging from his pocket. ‘Only joking, she said.’

The whore flew her jet pack in a beautiful evening dress. She watched below as they devoured the man and took his money. she laughed. Poor soul, she thought. And, still tingling from a night’s toil, sought the empty plains outside the city. The heliotrope hued sky clawed into the black rock beneath. A few dots moved at speed towards a vehicle. From the east, a mountainous simoom devoured the desert.

She was found weeks later. Her body leathern and twisted around devastated metal and splintered rock. Next to her was a large sign made of fibreboard.

‘WE ARE YOUR FRENDS!’ It said.

Tagged: Death, Dream, experimental fiction, fiction, fiction blog, flash fiction, light, micro fiction, poetry, prose, short fiction, short prose, short story, storm, stream-of-conciousness, writing blog

Mash Up Myself

maxwelljay — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 00:52:30 +0000

If you cracked open my abdomen, you’d find an assortment of tired organs; a heart barely beating; more glugging than anything else, and probably a small rodent seeking shelter.
And all this while I’m driving. The car wasn’t in much better shape either.
One or twice, I could swear I heard her cough. But it was the weeping and wailing which I was less prepared for.
My sympathy vehicle and I had the appearance of having been dragged through electrical wire after being slapped around with sides of beef.
The things we have to do.
So when I parked the car and shut off the engine I could smell the fear. Then the heart leapt into life, presuming upon the advent of fight or flight.
In the end, it was a little of both…regrettably.
And I left her with tears in her eyes whilst I got out of there, not knowing what else to do. Instinct told me to run. Like a rat’s must.
Idiotically, I expected to feel as though a weight had been lifted. But as I drove back to the destroyed city, my heart hung in my chest like it was a lead bowling ball.
Only the warm, tickling sensation on my face gave me any clue at all that I was in floods of tears.
Though…
Guilt put in the best performance of the day by a mile. Robed in sequins and neon, it strode onto centre stage with murder in its eyes. Blinding light spewed from every pore of its poisonous form like space worms with razor teeth attaching to my flesh at the speed of light. And its tirade hissed through an iron grimace; flesh still attached to its teeth. Like a hot knife, it stabbed into me again and again.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk…leaving people in the gutter like so much throw away detritus?…loathsome…all you do is rampage over people who care…no thought for their feelings…then act all surprised when it KA-BOOM’S in a shower of shit…your fault…forever…an ever…it will always be your fault…you are worthless…why can’t you just get on with it like everyone else anyway?…just go with the flow?…do you think you are BETTER than everyone else?…is that it?…hahaha, one thing I’ll give you is that you’re a funny specimen…no, not funny, you’re fucking hilarious…and I mean that; you are so funny that I’m giddy with it…look at you and your gut…and what is going on with your face?…I mean it’s all lop-sided, like a livid corpse…maybe that explains the smell that blares off you…you’re dead…DEAD…because only a dead thing would behave as you do and fail to realise how thoroughly disgusting it is…you’re a putrid, little nothing…you might as well be nothing…no guts….no substance…no balls…yeah, you head, you’ve got no BALLS…you’re a eunuch; emotionless, compassionless, pointless…a hard, unfeeling husk…”
And you take these beatings because there is nothing else to do. You know it’s coming. The fight posters are glued up all over town. The tickets sold out within minutes. The audience members are composed of ghosts: old friends, lovers, acquaintances, those I was rude to for no reason, those I was rude to with good reason. They all watch the walk-in. Some throw urine in open top bottles. Others just throw abuse. The noise recipe included large quantities of malevolence and retribution. When the crowd favourite makes its appearance, all decked out in black sequins and laser beam red eyes, the stadium erupts. Women scream lustily at the mere thought of your downfall. Men have fantasies of being the one dealing it out; just to watch your body reduced to mashed flesh, burst blood vessels and splintered bone. And when we stand opposite each other to hear the referee’s instructions, they laugh. The monster opposite towers over me. I can feel cold air hitting me rhythmically with grief’s sub-sonic glee.
After 12 rounds of brutal punishment, the creature puts me out of my misery.
They’re right. The one that knocks you out you don’t even see.

Tagged: beaten, experimental fiction, flash fiction, guilt, Love, macro fiction, micro fiction, new fiction, new flash fiction, short prose, short story, short story blog, stream-of-conciousness, Women, writing blog

Air Cancer

maxwelljay — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 00:40:38 +0000

It hovered above the pub. It was dark green and misty. Impenetrable. There were small, winged creatures buzzing in and out of it. Thousands of them. It was late summer. People stood around and looked. They were stupefied by the presence of the mist. The men urinated through their three-quarter length trousers onto their flip-flops. The women screeched and snorted at the men. One woman said ‘man-flu’ and the others fell about. One, smaller woman laughed so much she defecated. A small, round replica of herself in shit fell from her shorts and rolled down an open drain. The drain gobbled it up with a pronounced ‘gulp’. The smell of old beer and death snaked from the drain. A family of rats lived down there. They waited. A single, urine coloured lightening bolt leapt from the mist. It hit a man as he climbed out of his seat waving a twenty pound note. The bolt burnt a hole in the note and connected with the mans belly button. His stomach began to swell. A tentacle grew from his three-quarter lengths. A tail. The mans face buckled and a green olive slime drained from his nose. In the slime were small, pip-sized eggs inside which tiny, insect larvae were already hatching. A large rat ripped through the mans colon and, as his body fell, scurried down the drain. The black insects hatched and joined the others in the sky. The cloud of mist grew larger. Those that could speak said they could detect a sound like a heartbeat coming from its core .
When it grew to the size of the town they sent in the fighter jets. All were lost. The television broadcasts soon followed. The government blamed other, so-called ‘rogue states’ for the ‘disturbance’. And the entity doubled in size. A targeted exchange of military hardware between bickering nations ensued. We told that our sense of ‘Britishness’ was under attack. When the leaders began to realise that the threat did not come from another nation, they decided that the phenomenon was of extra-terrestrial origin. And the world now focussed all its hatred out into space. Orbiting the Earth, a ribbon of the mist grew a thin tentacle. The tentacle penetrated the atmosphere and connected with the mass below.
Citizens took to the streets and ransacked government offices. They set fire to small businesses and homes.
Diplomatic tension deteriorated and the ‘air-cancer’, as some were now calling it, covered one-third of the Earth’s surface.
The price and regularity of air travel has been dramatically altered. No plane can fly through the air-cancer. Imported goods are now out of reach to all but the most wealthy.
Now there are people alive who know only of a world infected with this plague. And no one knows how to stop it.
Perhaps the world has to accept it as part of a new paradigm.
Today I saw a group of tourists posing for a photo. “Make sure you get the air-cancer in the background!” one of them said.
And I watched as the thing grew like a cloud of green ink in water as the flashes went off.

Tagged: catastrophe, Cloud, conflict, disaster, disease, evil, experimental fiction, flash fiction, macro fiction, micro fiction, mini fiction, mist, short story, short story blog, writing, writing blog