all that remains is the smell of orange 

Originally posted on hijacked amygdala:
art by geoff mcfetridge She counts the chairs in our dining room, one, two, three, four, five, six. She points to each chair as if unconvinced, her brow furrowed in concern. She circles the dining table…

all that remains is the smell of orange 

Originally posted on hijacked amygdala:
art by geoff mcfetridge She counts the chairs in our dining room, one, two, three, four, five, six. She points to each chair as if unconvinced, her brow furrowed in concern. She circles the dining table…

six word story no. 35

the absence of angst startled her.

six word story no. 35

the absence of angst startled her.

/ art

“all I want in life is to be eaten by a tiger”

Originally posted on sarahgoodreau:
a man wrestled a tiger and won. over a post match glass of sherry the man confessed he had wanted to lose. “all I want in life is to be eaten by a tiger”, he said.

/ art

“all I want in life is to be eaten by a tiger”

Originally posted on sarahgoodreau:
a man wrestled a tiger and won. over a post match glass of sherry the man confessed he had wanted to lose. “all I want in life is to be eaten by a tiger”, he said.

what did the maid think when she found broken glass in the rubbish?

I wrote this story yesterday, before sunrise, before I had to wake the kid up and drive him to school, before my customary breakfast of fruit and granola bowl at a cafe where they play soppy 80s music and let

what did the maid think when she found broken glass in the rubbish?

I wrote this story yesterday, before sunrise, before I had to wake the kid up and drive him to school, before my customary breakfast of fruit and granola bowl at a cafe where they play soppy 80s music and let

the butterfly collector

Here’s the link to my latest flash fiction on Hijacked Amygdala.  It’s about infidelity, the least original of sins. Also have a look at brilliant art and poetry from Anna Spoon. It blows the mind.   the butterfly collector It

the butterfly collector

Here’s the link to my latest flash fiction on Hijacked Amygdala.  It’s about infidelity, the least original of sins. Also have a look at brilliant art and poetry from Anna Spoon. It blows the mind.   the butterfly collector It

saturn return

The inconvenient thing about rebirth is the lack of space. There’s a mess of tangled legs behind my rib cage– the old me that’s no longer funny, no longer charming without a gin and tonic in hand, and one or

saturn return

The inconvenient thing about rebirth is the lack of space. There’s a mess of tangled legs behind my rib cage– the old me that’s no longer funny, no longer charming without a gin and tonic in hand, and one or

correspondence 9.9.16

It is ten o’clock where I am, at a cafe, on an island down south, where a Thai cook is watching television, having already prepared my breakfast. It is low season, and in the course of the day, I am the only one he will see.

correspondence 9.9.16

It is ten o’clock where I am, at a cafe, on an island down south, where a Thai cook is watching television, having already prepared my breakfast. It is low season, and in the course of the day, I am the only one he will see.

ernesto

Originally posted on hijacked amygdala:
art by deger bakir You wore a skirt, it was purple, a favourite, its lace fringe limp against your brown thighs. And a pink translucent blouse, the top buttons undone from which a crucified Jesus…

ernesto

Originally posted on hijacked amygdala:
art by deger bakir You wore a skirt, it was purple, a favourite, its lace fringe limp against your brown thighs. And a pink translucent blouse, the top buttons undone from which a crucified Jesus…

it takes half an hour to get home

She slides her feet forward so her scarred limbs stretch between the legs of standing passengers.

it takes half an hour to get home

She slides her feet forward so her scarred limbs stretch between the legs of standing passengers.

don’t forget the alcohol

if the next forty years
are anything like the last
chop off my son’s fingers

don’t forget the alcohol

if the next forty years
are anything like the last
chop off my son’s fingers

at 6am on June 21

rain early morning
i’m flying over potholes
chasing after you.

at 6am on June 21

rain early morning
i’m flying over potholes
chasing after you.

correspondence 17.6.16

  From: Babe <listentothebabe@mail.com> To: Gordon Flanders <gordonflanders@mail.com> Date: Friday, June 17, 2016 at 9:39 AM Subject: the way the rain smells Dear G I’ve been waiting for the rains to come since early May. The locals say that this

correspondence 17.6.16

  From: Babe <listentothebabe@mail.com> To: Gordon Flanders <gordonflanders@mail.com> Date: Friday, June 17, 2016 at 9:39 AM Subject: the way the rain smells Dear G I’ve been waiting for the rains to come since early May. The locals say that this

dead things

Dead Things: My flash fiction piece for the week on Hijacked Amygdala. Proceed with caution.

dead things

Dead Things: My flash fiction piece for the week on Hijacked Amygdala. Proceed with caution.