Archive for the ‘fiction’ Category

Breakfast Serial x.09

Tuesday, June 16th, 2009

Due to me finally coming to grips with reality, Breakfast Serial x.10, the finale, will be posted next Wednesday.

In the meantime, enjoy the penultimate episode here or here.

And don’t forget the archive.

Breakfast Serial x.08

Monday, June 8th, 2009

Now on Mondays!

Looking for a fix during the week? Try the archive


And, enjoy a nice, refreshing cross-post.

Or read on:

Breakfast Serial x.06

Sunday, May 24th, 2009

It’s still morning somewhere, right?

Any time’s a good time to archive.

Now’s a good time to cross-post.


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It’s Clear to See That I Love You More Than You Love Me

Saturday, May 23rd, 2009

She stood anxiously before him as he sat on the step, her head bowed, warm almost strawberry hair hiding her expression. Around her neck a red winter scarf trailed despite the summer heat and over her shoulders she wore a nondiscript grey hoody, almost Jack Wills but not quite.

Her feet were awkward in trainers, box pleat skirt moving gently with her movements as she shifted her feet and diamond patterened Tabio tights unwillingly drawing his eyes down.

About his ears, the curl of his dirty blond hair, he felt a burning sensation of pain, a quiet fire of a truth that could not be denied.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I just can’t.”

Reaching out, she took his hand and placed within it the sole token of his misguided affection and then rushed past him, the imposing white front door of her house slamming behind her.

He sat quietly for a moment, token in hand and skateboard at the bottom of the steps and then, his limbs like dead weights, lifted himself up.

Turning he saw an older man at the window of the neighbouring house, reaching with spider leg fingers to push open the window, his blue eyes full of embarrassment and cruelty.

Their eyes met and the boy offered only the gaze of someone caught up in events beyond his understanding, the victim of a natural tragedy.

In the other’s face was a sense of cruel tragedy, a rejoicing in the failure of youth’s tender affection, the reminder of an old scar opened once again and the keen desire to see his own suffering reflected on the world around him.

He turned away and the boy, with nowhere else to go, placed one foot upon his skateboard, pulled his hood up closer around his ears and allowed forward motion, the same sensation that had not carried him forward into the absent girl’s heart, to carry him away with the cracks in the pavements and the setting sun.

The white door of her house remained silent and imposing.

Breakfast Serial x.03
Breakfast Serial x.03

Sunday, May 3rd, 2009

Bleeder is now Spatter.

Here is the archive.

And, here is part three (x-post facto):

Breakfast Serial x.02

Sunday, April 26th, 2009

Another manic Sunday…


Breakfast Serial x.01

Saturday, April 18th, 2009

Cross posted from my blog.

A new thing. Every Sunday. Or late Saturday, depending on your time zone. But probably Sunday. Once I figure out the scheduling function.

Anyway, yeah, here’s this then:


The Winter House: FEBRUARY

Friday, February 27th, 2009

The snow came on unexpectedly, falling so heavily that it blocked the roads in and out of Farlas and caused much distemper amongst those merchants who had planned visits to the other villages.

Amongst them had been Porthos, eager to return to the comforts of his s’Hertogenbosch inn and decidedly disgruntled that he was forced to spend several days in the freezing cold with a shovel fighting a losing battle against the elements.

Tobit, choosing to fly on ahead and inform the villages of the snowfall in Farlas, left shortly after Porthos began his battle.

Loud Ghost and the Howling Pope, having nothing better to do decided to relax and enjoy the February festivities.



Wednesday, February 4th, 2009

‘My name is Flavius Furius Aquila, first born of Vibius Furius Aquila and lately of Camulodunum in Britain.

I have served for several score years in honour and valour with the Legio II Augusta, that most noble company of men who, under the command of the young Vespasian helped bring order to the shores of Britain some 285 years previously.

This epistle, scratched hastily on a sodden scrap of parchment, is to comprise my final words…’


The Winter House: JANUARY

Saturday, January 31st, 2009

New Year passed swiftly and before they knew it, they were taking down the tree, unwinding garlands of tinsel and paper-chains, snuffing out candles and putting away baubles.

A sense of melancholy pervaded the winter house.