Sunday, 3 May 2009

Sunday Meander

#vss Berlin became him, was him. There, his thoughts danced passionately with his mind. When he finally left, hollow, most of him stayed on.

#vss It burrowed deeper into him,infecting his speech.Even his sharp tongue couldn't cut it out.Finally, he gave in and did the hokey-cokey

#vss His nose just a triangle,the rest were ellipses&lines.His rectanglar jaw trembled.Geometrical surgery hadnt really straightened him out

#vss They banished him.Erased his username&untagged his tweets.He was an outlander.They hung his photos on Flickr&Facebook,his face cut out

#vss She owned a taxonomy machine.If pointed at anything,it could categorise in seconds.I pointed it at her&it exploded.We don't speak now.

Saturday, 2 May 2009

A swingful of Saturday

#vss She translated love.He edited it.They craved love but often mistook it.He hammered love to the wall.She stared at it for hours,puzzled.

#vss It is a fact she worshipped her nose.It is a fact that she built herself a house in the shape of it and sneezed away unwanted visitors

#vss Music scared him.Its texture was wrong.He couldnt see it,taste it or touch it.It cast a spell but he was immune.Only he heard the truth

#vss He lubricated his days with chunks of juicy prose.At night,he'd feast on dry scraps of poetry,mixing syllables with fresh spring rain.

#vss She was his α and he was her Ω. They decided to compromise over a slice of cherry π.

#vss Her nostrils hovered across the land, breathing in love & hate, cool silence & heated words. He looked up to see her face, darkening.

#vss She broke his stories in pieces. Reading became like leaping across a river of words. His writing whirlpooled into rafts of paragraphs.

#vss He carried his child to the chair. She was sleeping & he kissed her gently. That night,he would leave. And she would forget him,in time

#vss Sir Mandeville made sure tweets were 140 characters long. He had seen the world beyond Twitter, full of monsters, enchantments & lies.

Friday, 1 May 2009

Friday's batch

#vss "Why is science important?" the teacher asked. Jim didn't know.But it was the only class where he got to sit next to Jilly Braithwaite

#vss Inside the wreck,he wriggled his toes excitedly.It was beautiful.Even if the treasure wasnt here,the tales he could sell were priceless

#vss She loved falling in love but hated being in love.She understood this&lived alone at a lakeside villa.Her selfhelp books made her rich.

#vss He craved space on the page like he needed space in his rooms. Minimalism, they called it. His favourite was a one letter novel. "I".

#vss It was the perfume that betrayed him.She turned,finger on the trigger."Any regrets?"she asked."Yes.I should have lived a life of crime"

#vss He kept his name in a box.His friends didnt know his real name.Most called him John.Before we buried him along with it,I sneaked a peak

#vss Take this cup&drink,my friend.Let's celebrate the end of our conflict.They smiled&kissed while the ordinary gunfire petaled their home.

His mood would flip through the day like a weathercock on a remote island hilltop.Anyone could change it by gently blowing in the wind. #vss

#vss He screwed it open&placed his ear to the jar. Inside was stored the sound of his first birthday. He heard its silence for the 1st time.

#vss Crashrangutan,dont fool me into thinking youre real,like a Keelboot or a brush-backed eel.Surprise me!Tell all in words stippled in dew

His face a shadow against the sun-crisp sky,he turned to face her.He couldn't quite muster the guts to tell the truth. &he never would #vss

May opened her arms&gave him cocoa.He'd been out keeping the vampires at bay.She felt his deathly cold skin&his teeth sunk in her neck #vss

#6wordstory Salt-lipped with lust, he short-changed love.

#vss A sharp word halved her thoughts into left&right.She'd push words across her hands,walk thru fields of novels.They named her Jekylline.

Depending upon how he upskills,we'll def deep-end him.It'll unroot those annoying certainties he has,make him more pliant&easy to sack. #vss

A nightbag of stories

With a sleeve of time she made a cloak.It let her alter her past,cleaning up tiny faux pas.And she always had the wittiest ripostes in town.

His plan-sweep up the poets&force them to write in rhyme or lose their Eliot license.His success forced poetry underground,where it belongs.

She was a Scot out of water&he an Englishman abroad.They exchanged vowels at Derby&hullaballooed aboard the QE2,joining 'i's for their tea.

This frail man once ruled the land&now he shrivels here in his cave,shivering&calling out for milk.His dead white eyes still pierce you thru

Handsome though he was,she wanted better.Her eye wld drift from man to man&he knew if he didn't provide a child,he'd soon have to scuttle on

He rolled his life into shape&found himself a steady girl&a steady job.His need for liquor liquified into the best built birdhouse around.

His headache spread to the paper on the table&the ink in his pen.His words filled with a migraine sharp venom,burst on the page&snapped shut

She cared for words not mouths.He cared for skin not flesh.They cared for love not lust.They weighed each other bare,sharing their thoughts.

His crackly gramophone voice was a thrill she rationed.After 3 years alone on the island,it snapped her back to a culture long since gone.

John broke the bread&gave it to the boy&his mother.The boy did not like the bread&spat it out.His mother slapped John,pouring his wine away.

A brush of him set her on fire.His sweat diluted her&his words scattered her to unimaginable places.He was her poison&she drank him whole.

Oranges rarely satisfied his hunger for fruit.He moved onto papaya&cherimoya until finally he could only feast alone,guzzling cuts of Durian

In the rumbletumble of his bachelor days,he would play pool into the pockets of the night.Nowadays,he swims every morning&dreams of snooker.

Thursday, 30 April 2009

Today's Stories

On a cruel Walpurgis night,the poets sharpened their teeth&dusted off their cloaks.They stole through children's pockets,secreting poems.

Foolishly,he only retweeted in anger.His followers would divide into two sorts-those who adored his tantrums&those who waited to be next.

Leafless&in love,the plant asked her gardener for an extra shot of nitrates.He refused.She'd get her leaves back one day&then she could wed.

5-7-5 prose attempt... A snake threatens rain. They laugh at its lies and head. Kids just can't be told.

Muscular,white bread legs greeted her downcast head as she scurried to heel alongside her Pa.She knew her place but he couldn't imagine his.

On her 40th birthday,she lost her languages&lost the friends who spoke them.She always suspected her ex-husband had stolen them&her friends.

The corridor stank.She lit a cigarette,exchanging one foul smell for another.She pushed herself back,hoping she'd get caught.A stank thrill

He carved his initials into the bark,put down his knife&started to read of a man who carved his initials into a tree,gasped&started to bleed

The Twitter Stories so far

The 140 character stories, after 6 days: (first ones are last)

1. "This metal",he grinned,"will make us rich"Placing it in the machine,his face flushed.He knew it would never work.He flicked the switch&fled

2. The lemon confused her.Two wires connected to the radio didnt make sense.Lemontricity confused Jack too,but he just sneered."Girls are dumb"

4. He was Platonic in his love&distrustful of poets.Art was false&ill defined. Scientists were the true unacknowledged legislators of the world

5. If he'd been a year younger,he'd have missed the war.She threw a cup of barley into the stock&lit a mournful cigarette.At last,she was free.

6. Under the water he watched airplanes scoring the sky.He'd make words from their trails,scribbling riddles in the margin of his homework book

7. Novels were black holes to him.How could one person could invent another?Real imagination lay in the conjectural constraints of science.

9. Lemonade was foreign back then,an exotic way to share summer nights on cool whitewashed porches.He stirred the jug.She wasn't even born then

11. His face burned.The belt strapped his cheeks,pain buckled his skin&he vowed that this angry drunk would never strike him or his mother again

12. #6wordstory The bridge rolled over, drunkenly asleep.

13. #6wordstory The suspicions lingered. She slunk home.

14. Chasing the penguins down the muddy lane, it did strike him as odd that they spoke Brazilian Portuguese and not Swiss German.

26. #6wordstory Hiding her wedding ring, she prayed.

27. Just got myself of those Samsung netbooks. Leaving it to charge as I browse on a public computer just up from the Scottish Parliament.

31. #6wordstory The marriage explained almost everything. Almost.

32. #6wordstory His bored obesity regressed. She left.

33. #6wordstory - Her hair. He missed her hair.

34. The Wolf of Badenoch rode across the heather,Lochindorb shrouded in the melancholy he'd first breathed as a boy.He lit his torch,victorious

35. Stitch&bitch just led to too much bitching& not enough stiching.She kept attending,hoping one day they'd invite her out or ask her her name.

37. After a life frying fish, pizzas, mars bars & pastries, he realised there lay one final frontier. His last ambition was to deep fry the sea.

41. Coffee jump started his friendships.He'd take you out for a cup&charm with his whipped latte talk. He never drank, just toyed with the spoon

43. Kissing girls like he used to guzzle sweets,Jim had a childish approach to love.His tantrums were legend&his wife as meek as an Easter lamb.

44. The sticky lego piece smuggled in his pocket burned like ember&he knew everyone suspected.He slunk out,ashamed.It was be magic to have it.

45. Jim,too old for tennis but not old enough for bowls,decided to take on Tango.2 hip-replacements later,he lives for his weekly ballroom high

47. To cure a lifelong problem getting up in the morning,he ordered a bed made of cake.He ate his way up&out,breakfasting his way to the door.

48. After the Ball,she did regret stealing her sister's invite&pretending to be from Rome.She listened to the rain,the Prince's ring in her palm

50. In the hazy place he called his childhood,his one clear memory was his mother's peach crumble.He missed that perhaps more than he missed her

51. The cigarette was useless now he poured his drink over her.She flicked the lighter anyway&the whole thing caught fire.She never smoked again

54. Someday he'd learn to speak Latin or remember all 50 States or play the flute.Today it was enough to move his toes & babble & smile & be new

55. Jen learned to hide oranges with her aunt who spied for Brazil in the 50s.Her memoirs mysteriously contained 5recipes for Orange liqueur ink

56. On Christmas Day,her dog dropped dead.She cried for days,burying him by the old Elm.Years later,her husband's last words were"I killed Fido"

57. As the blaze spread,her mind cleared.Finally,her writer's block had lifted.Paint began to blister but she sat by the keyboard ready to write

59. Many books live a brief life-bent double on airplanes,creased under covers or sunk in the bath.But some survive.Here's a soapy toast to them

61. The men huddled round.It was dawn&kittiwake song filled the cliff.Soon rescue would arrive.Silent,cold&glad,they'd inhaled the sea&survived.

63. He was all bow tie&braces,a pocketful of gold.I loved him as only a son can love a rogue dad.But he blew it the day he robbed our Piggy bank

64. His handshake was uncertain but his eyes seemed kind.Wasnt long before people complained.He didnt mind.He just drove up&down,minding his own

65. She said she'd been a pink gin rustler from Growl.He'd never heard of the place,but hired her anyway&nobody ever asked about her wooden head

66. Was he just too drunk to pay the bill or was it something else?When the Dr arrived,he started to laugh.The"man"was his long lost sister,Ann.

67. Chorus girls weren't his scene but he ended up backstage,chatting.This led to that&they ended up at a diner where the menus danced Tango.

68. He soaked the beans for a few minutes too long.Everything seemed fine until his family filled up with wind&started to float above the table.

77. If taste were colour,he'd be into grey. He couldn't shake the feeling he'd been destined for this climb, up & down the confetti strewn drain

78. She blushed.Dad had no right to paw through her things.She wished the floor were Dartmoor quicksand&he evil Stapleton run down by the hound

80. He chewed through a book review, thumbing an orange free of peel, butchering an organic, corn fed poetry. His tastes were more liquid.

81. The rat sniffled out a new friend.Its electric hum reassured her it could be trusted unlike the noisy ultraviolet mouth, full of dead flies.

82. The flash from the camera blinded them long enough for his quick fingers to do their worst. He vanished as fast as their smiles dropped.

87. The writer wrote the marathon in just under 6 words & a comma,a full syllable ahead of the next man.His prize?A bottle of chilled semicolons

89. Smashed,burnt pianos littered his tiny bedsit.He loved music but had never learned to play.His talents lay instead with the hammer&the match

91. Can you keep a secret?I can't.They burn holes in my conscience or gnaw at the insides of my ears.Instead, I keep mine safe with my friends.

92. Teacher announced to class they would learn how to spell"cup".But as it was backwards that day,a generation would drink tea from hockey pucs

93. If I were made of ice,or bark,or iron,I'd know that this heat would destroy me.But I'm made of a blue light which burns so bright I'm scared

94. He worried himself to an early old age through a diet of exercise&hard work.At 40 he gave it all up for drink.And regretted every min of it.

95. The BBQ was burning&she was drunk with excitement.Daddy's new boat&her new trust fund.It was the last time she remembered seeing him smile.

96. One scrape of his chin&he'd change forever.Holding the yellow Bic in his hand,he plunged it in soap water&shaved his suddenly masculine face

97. He joined Twitter to give him something to do with his hands after kicking his habit.Twitter was more addictive.He hopes they'll ban it soon

98. The seals knew something, but he knew they'd never tell.Instead of asking,he laid a trap.If it worked,he'd probably never have to work again

99. She'd tie strings of music to balloons she'd find amongst the scrubwood.One day,she burst one by mistake&out leapt Elvis.She teaches Art now

100. She was chocolate in his hands&he a skilled deceiver.He concocted confections which
melted her heart enough to let him steal her life away.

101. Songs from the nextdoor shower was all he heard weekends.The rest of the time he wrapped himself warm in his room, pretending to read Blake.

102. She unanchored her seasickness the day we boated to Isle Martin. Perhaps it's still adrift someplace, waiting, a snake for whoever finds it.

103. Sad though it was,he was happy the day his grandfather left the family house to start his life in a home.It was a new beginning for everyone

105. Coins are like candy to him.He puts them in his mouth&waits for each to dissolve.He likes the taste,the sense of savoring something of value

106. He huffed and he puffed and he sewed the stitch down. Needlework was the highlight of his day, after mincing the beef and squeezing flies.

107. "If only all children could say their prayers as well as you." She closed the door, switching off the light. Nothing lasts forever.

108. "I'm a Mac",he said."And I'm a TV",she said.They check each other out.TV starts to talk but Mac stops her."Don't bother.You're not my type"

109. "If only all children could say their prayers as well as you." She closed the door, switching off the light. Nothing could stop her crying.

110. "This burger is not for me." She sniffed, shoving the needles into the back seat. "It's for my brother. It's his birthday". He raised a brow

111. Wrapped up in a cellophane mystery,she kept herself sharp by puncturing holes in her sweater.They claimed she knew the answer.She never said

113. If he'd only swallowed that bitter pill at 22, his heart would still be in the right place and not wandering around town like a hungry fox.

114. As I peel back the tight wrap, I realise these socks are the wrong size. Humiliated, I pretend they are for the nephew I'll prob never have.

116. The family assembles to discuss James.He's been skiving school to take knitting lessons with Aunt Jen.They're unsure which to disapprove of.

117. I curl up on the yellow bedspread & try to dream of tea.Hours pass but my thoughts fit naturally back to the booze and her face last night.

119. A forgotten community lies deep in his heart, the place where stories begin with thirteen generations of children & songs breathe with fire

120. There is a definite macabre sense to writing such short fiction. I am surprising myself.

121. The two boys find a little white mouse under the pillow. It is sleeping & as they watch its belly move up & down they sharpen their knives.

122. Blunt & rarely to the point, he downed his twelfth shot of the night. His hand was steady as he looked down at the dinner. She turned,afraid

124. I think cake should come in chunks, not slices. A chunk of cake. What would the collective noun for chunks of cake? A quarry of cake chunks?

126. Most days he knew would be a rock star. In his uniform,he smiled at those who enjoyed the museum, certain they would see him in wax one day.

127. Her walk was cut short by her elderly aunt,shouting about her long dead cat.A seaweed covered brick in her hand&the cat's tags wrapped round

128. I'm going to try to write microfiction in these Boxable Tweets. Wish me luck. I'll think you up if you think of me.

129. Alice moves across her page as if she were lighter than air. I take a handful of earth and discover she's not from this world. She's madeup

Sunday, 26 April 2009

I'm on Twitter

It seems a bit odd to start a blog the day after I join micro-blogging site Twitter, but I'd like a place to keep the 140 character fiction I've been writing so that they don't get lost amid all the tweets. Anyway, this is the ThinkMeUp blog and I'll be posting stories and various other things, coinciding with my tweets.

I think I'm more of a microblogging sort of guy - not a poet, more of a prose poet, where we take the "pr" from prose and create the ugly proet. Sounds like a disgusting British food ingredient. Anyway, however I describe myself I'm interested in constraint-based writing. I'm not really interested in definition games, so call me what you like. So long as it's not Bernaby Heights, as he is my nemesis.