Wednesday, 30 March 2011


Ansel took a bite of lamb. He savoured the salty burst of juices and smiled at the crackle of delicate bones between his teeth – the sound reminded him of happy days playing in human camps, amongst wooden huts.

He took another bite. It was these simple moments he enjoyed the most.

The third, final, bite. Some of his brothers would be done in two, but Ansel always saved the best for last. He popped the lamb’s head into his mouth. Mmm, the crack of the skull; the delicious, spongy brain meat.

He let out a contented belch. The ground shook.

Wednesday, 23 March 2011


Wired. Silken strings throb beneath his skin, uplifting.

He takes his first steps, tentative, a newborn foal.

Step, step. Steady, step, step.

He dances for them, for all of them. And they all want him, want control.

And none of them want to share.

Pushed, pulled, thrust, thrown. Too many hands on him, too many puppeteers.

He screams, screams and they panic.

They let go and he crumples, a deflated dream. They stare at him. They accuse him with their shock and their silence.

He would walk away, should walk away, but he hasn’t the strength to rise by himself.

Wednesday, 16 March 2011



MyLife YourLife MyLife YourLife MyLife

Your Life My Life. Your Life My Life. Your Life

My Life. Your Life. My Life.

Your Life.

My Life.

Your Life.


Ah. Oh dear.

You lose.

Rigged? No. Quite impossible.

I did suggest chess, remember? You can’t blame me for a game of chance.

Can’t blame yourself either, though I suppose that’s no comfort.

I’ll give you a minute.

Just remind me, what was your wife’s name? I’d hate to slip up on something so basic.

Wednesday, 9 March 2011


He dreams a vast emptiness.

Sometimes it is a desert, lifeless sand for miles, other times it is bare stone or warm, soft dust. Once it was gently swaying grass as far as the eye could see; just the once.

He crosses on foot, for hours, until he reaches the doors.

Hundreds of doors.

Behind them, he is sure, so sure, are wonderful places where his family and friends wait for him. But whichever door he picks, as it opens he knows he has chosen the same door, again. And it is too late.

He steps through, he wakes, alone.

Wednesday, 2 March 2011


This little pixie went to market,
This little pixie stayed at home,
This little pixie had roast meat,
And this little pixie had none.

And this twisted little pixie, sat alone in his police cell, couldn’t stop giggling hysterically.

Wee, wee, wee, wee, wee!

All his older brothers were dead. The eldest was in pies; the next in the cold, damp soil beneath the floorboards. He had tied the twins up... cut parts off one, seasoned the meat with salt and a slow poison, then cooked it and fed it to the other.

Never would he be ‘little piggy’ again.