Wednesday, 26 January 2011


The wind carries their howls. It carries their bloodlust and intent.

They are hunting us, even as we hunt them.

They are the only prey we do not eat though; such flesh as theirs must never pass our throats. We hunt them purely for survival.

They hunt us for sport, for slaughter and dark joy; a need for torn flesh in their teeth, blood spilt in moonlight.

They are stronger, but we are cunning. We are wolf.

They have lost nature’s subtlety, there is too much of man in them; too much of the men they were, in the daylight.

Wednesday, 19 January 2011


His soft skin was pale as driftwood; his hair as unruly as tangle weed. His slender body was featureless as a child’s, his hoofs like those of a goat.

He played a breathy, fey tune on wooden pipes.

Slowly, they approached, like the first hint of an evening star. Coy, delicate and pretty. Winged, tiny and bright.


They danced for him.

And when they tired they snuggled in amongst the curls of his hair and fell asleep. Then, one by one, he popped them into his mouth; crunching their bones carefully, quietly, so as not to awaken the others.

Wednesday, 12 January 2011


Robert caressed his iThing.

It murmured as it adapted to his touch, downloading apps, auto-evolving as it predicted his desires.

‘Hyper-ergonomics’ they called it. The iThing was ‘whatever you needed it to be’.

It began as a flat lump of stylish white potential. It was intuitive beyond any of its predecessors; shape shifting; building a dynamic, custom control set from the moment you picked it up.

Robert knew he could never find someone that understood him as well as his iThing. He pressed it to his face, feeling it penetrate his skin. He moaned as it whispered in his brain.

Wednesday, 5 January 2011


It was all about performance.

A man was sat on a bench in Windsor Park, where the path curves round the willow trees and the duck pond is just out of sight. Mothers hurried as they dragged their staring children past.

The man stared back with bright, sharp eyes atop an expansive, unruly beard. His clothes were ragged, a faded rainbow of dirty greys.

He winked at two young boys, chosen at random, then reached into his coat and theatrically produced a scraggy chicken. Its dead head lolled.

Next, with the children’s undivided fascination, he bit the head clean off.