High above;
Above the moon and the stars
Tempestuous gods
Spit and snarl their discontent.

The uneasy air,
Flooded with pain,
Is filled with the sweet stench of the
Impending storm.

We huddle together under the bleak night sky,
My arms surround your shivering frame
As the cold rain falls around us.

Together, we will see this through.

August 2010.

He sits and talks and laughs;
Oblivious;
And inside she cries
The tears of a thousand broken souls.
The pain envelops her,
Passionate rage surges forth
And sinks its sticky claws
Deep in her tender heart.
She is overcome,
And yet she remains subdued.

Fantasy strangles her fragile mind:
She prophecises what could be;
What should be;
If only things were different.
She will never truly understand,
But inside – somewhere – she knows
The truth, her silver bullet,
Would destroy her.

So she longs for him:
Her life a tragedy suffered in silence.
And he will never know.

May 2010.

The sprawling scrawl across the page
Is the writer’s soul: laid bare as
A newborn; a rosy thorn
Drawing passionate blood
From its triumphant creator.

The words cease to flow. The black
Night – the end of the light -  encompassing all.
And the reader shall know;
It shall course through his veins and he shall ache.
For he knows in his broken heart that there is nothing left to write.

March 2010.

Lance had inherited the case from a long line of reporters, each broken by the strain of the case. And he was next. He’d pulled up reams of facts from the infamous billionaire’s past, but around every promising corner he hit a dead end. The accusations against Craine, however, were too huge to ignore: extortion, theft, murder, prostitution, arms dealing. All those allegations and yet no proof; not one morsel of newsworthy information. Something had to be buried in the ruthless businessman’s past; something he’d failed to hide.

Things had been much easier back in his university days; back in his fledgling journalistic years, writing about funding cuts and wet t-shirt competitions for The Gaudie. But now was different. Big newspapers demanded big stories: adultery, death, embezzlement. “Bad news is good news,” said his editor time and time again. “And that’s what I get for writing for a two-bit rag of a tabloid,” thought Lance.

Glancing at his cracked watch, Lance was surprised to see how late it was. Stifling a yawn, he stretched his arms behind his head, cracking his knuckles the way his ex-wife used to hate. Switching off his computer with a swift kick in the general direction of the switch, he pulled on a crumpled suit jacket over a decidedly uninspiring shirt-and-tie-combo.

Turning slowly on the spot, Lance surveyed his cluttered office. A lonely bulb hung limply in the middle of the roof, basking the room in its dull orangey glow. The once-white blinds, now tinged yellow thanks to decades of nicotine, covered grubby windows which in turn boasted views over the city’s rougher areas.  Lance’s desk sat proudly in the middle of the room: a majestic period piece standing proudly alone amongst the trash which covered the floor. A tall grey filing cabinet stood next to the window, the broken remains of a mirror hanging on the wall above it.

Lance walked over to the filing cabinet, fumbling in his pocket for a key ring fit to burst. Selecting a small silver key, he unlocked the top drawer and heaved it open, rummaging for a short while before pulling out a bottle of 12 year old Laphroaig. Pouring himself a nip, he thought about what he intended to do. Could he go through with it? Was it madness?

Knocking the nip back, he poured and drank another before carefully re-stoppering the bottle and placing it back into its nest of papers. Delving into the top drawer once again Lance, this time, pulled out a small revolver. Ejecting the cylinder, he picked out six bullets from the filing cabinet and meticulously loaded the gun. Clicking the cylinder back into place, he carefully tucked the gun into his waistband. Slowly, he closed the drawer and locked the cabinet. Looking in the mirror, he stared back at himself. A crack in the glass formed a scar from his eye to his lip, disfiguring his once-handsome face.

Walking back over to his desk, Lance picked up a battered leather-bound notebook and slotted it into his inside jacket pocket. He tried in vain to find a pen that worked amongst the receipts and papers which lay all over the table. Finally finding one that wasn’t dry or chewed, he placed it into his pocket beside the notebook. Heading for the door, Lance paused, looking back at his office. Flicking the light switch, the solitary bulb flickered and the room was bathed in rich darkness. Clicking the door closed he once again groped around for his keys and locked the door.

Lance walked down the lonely corridor towards the reception. The nearer he got to the public entrance, the nicer his surroundings became: drab, faded wallpaper and dusty carpets gave way to crisp clean walls and polished wooden floors. “Keeping up appearances,” his editor had said.

He stopped at the reception, waiting for Gloria the night receptionist to hang up the phone. The smell of her sweet perfume lingered in the air. Lance took a deep breath and let her scent envelop him. “Goodnight Gloria,” he heard himself say. She returned the favour, smiling back at him, flirting. “See you tomorrow,” he continued with a smile. Lance walked towards the revolving doors and glanced back at the pretty receptionist, for maybe the last time.

“Bad news is good news,” his editor had said. If there was nothing he could dig up on Craine, Lance Gordon was going to make his own news.

March 2010.
Written for The Gaudie Creative Writing Competition.

They debate the g-spot, and the appeal
Of feet; they discuss what’s hot and what’s not and
Pause: contemplating their fantastical ideal.
“We all should have two partners,” pipes up one,
“That would make birthdays much more fun!”

So as I eavesdrop, the students plot a scheme
To introduce sex en masse to the nation;
To realise their brilliantly improbable dream.
Ponders one: “How on earth could we make this bigger?”
“That’s what she said,” another mutters with a snigger.

March 2010.

January 2010.
On the passing of JD Salinger.

Bookcases tower over me:
Redwoods in a forest of sublime knowledge.
Silently I wonder through foliage,
Searching for the elusive text;
The forbidden fruit.

I venture past ancient tomes,
Their spines faded and brittle as autumn leaves,
Their contents evergreen.

I take a deep breath;
The musty scent of pine hangs fresh in the air.

January 2010.
Written for ‘HeadLines’ e-zine.

January 2010.

Names and ages and trivial pursuits were offered up for consumption,
We considered and contemplated; we examined and were examined:
This was to be our judgement day.

A mistaken identity broke the surface;
Laughter rippled across the room as
The discomfort which once drowned us was replaced with fresh anticipation.

Before long we were old friends,
Our fates intertwined
As we approach the horizon.

January 2010.

January 2010.