Friday, 21 September 2012



“What do you mean?”

“I’ve always focused on realism. My previous sculptures were always lifelike. That’s what I am known for.”

“So why the change in style?”

“I started this as a sitting figure. My model was a young woman who worked at the gallery. She posed when it was quiet. Over time, we became lovers.”

“And she inspired you toward the abstract?”

“No, not at all. It was my wife. She discovered my infidelity, and took to the work with a sledgehammer. With only one day before the opening, this was the only way I could salvage something.”

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

Wednesday, 19 September 2012


A child runs, trips, falls
Knees grazed, palms hit asphalt
A moment of silence, then tears
Blood begins to seep
Crying uncontrollably
The world collapses

With a sweeping motion
A woman scoops, lifts and holds
Uninterrupted movement, and the child
Enfolded in her ample breast
Blanketed and comforted, now calm
I am that child
Safe in mothers arms
Trifecta writing challenge week forty three. The word is ample, the context:
buxom, portly <an ample figure>

Monday, 17 September 2012


We are a circle
Inside we know. It’s our world, our life
Outside is unending, we explore, we learn, but never conquer
And the circle itself
Is the border between us and forever
Written for Trifextra week forty two

Thursday, 13 September 2012


Worst are the ones who don’t notice. They are downright dangerous. If I am lucky, they only inflict partial damage. Usually though, I have to rebuild from scratch. When they do notice, they generally leave me alone; unless they are children with sticks. Then it’s game over. They won’t stop until every element is destroyed, every thread is broken and I have exited the scene.

So you ask, “Why don’t you choose a different location, where they won’t see you, and you aren’t under constant threat.”

But a spider has to eat, and where there are humans, there are flies.
Written for Friday Fictioneers inspired by the image:
spider web

Tuesday, 11 September 2012

Radical Trading

He had a gift. He could – without effort – assimilate what was going on around him, and translate it into financial outcomes. In news that others ignored, he saw price signals. A fire on the west coast meant that, in coming months, apples, or wheat, or something else would be in short supply. Adverse weather meant that electricity prices would increase. Hurricanes were good for construction companies, and bad for agriculture. Global conflict was linked to the prices of oil and gold. He had an ability to pick these linkages, and to use them to make money.

In the beginning, he used his gift as an enabler. Trading the markets meant that, with minimal effort, he could generate enough income to support himself and his comrades. The irony of the term struck him. Back then, he truly believed in the communist system and its ideals. It was the type of society he wanted to create. Trading was the way to fund his aspirations, and a way to triumph over the very system he wanted to bring down. He saw no contradiction in starting a company, and in using the system he despised to provide the resources, to allow him to pursue its downfall.

In those days, whatever he generated filled an immediate need. He did not want wealth. He wanted freedom. He wanted to change the world. Without having to worry about food, shelter and all the basics, he could spend his time changing the world. Trading allowed him to do this. He was respected as a provider, and he proudly took on the role.

Gradually it all changed. Saving the world became less relevant as he turned toward generating more and higher returns. Comrades disappeared, and clients took their place. What was once a means to an end, became an activity of itself. Back then, Radical Trading was a name he was proud of. It reflected his ideals and outlook. Today, the name of his large and very successful hedge fund, felt hollow.

Written for Trifecta Challenge week forty two. The word is radical, the context

Saturday, 8 September 2012


The last strains of sunlight
lingered in the corners,
grasping every available point
of refraction. She slid her
fingertips along the glass
wondering if this was all there
ever was. Or could be.

The last strains of sunlight
Now replaced by darkness,
blanketing inside and out
In emptiness. Still she stands
palms on the window
waiting, watching but not knowing what
ever was. Or could be.
The second verse completes Trifextra challenge for week thirty one.

Friday, 7 September 2012


Phase one is completed. Time to wait for the signal to begin phase two.

I don't miss home. I have everything I need. I know I won't be here for too long. I also know that I will not be noticed. The locals will just say I am some old hermit living in an abandoned cottage.

Little do they know that behind the rustic exterior of my temporary home is a fully functional remote battle station. One of thousands, ready, armed and waiting.

When my masters give the signal, phase two will commence, and the earth will finally be ours.
Written for Friday Fictioneers.

Tuesday, 4 September 2012

Infinite Bandwidth

Content, too much
Choices, too many
Life is a ticker
Streaming across the bottom of our consciousness
News, stock quotes, anything
As long as it fits into a soundbite
The cycle of data
Where gossip becomes innuendo, becomes truth
The absence of information
Matters little, when available now
In any format on any medium
Instant download, instant message
Instant gratification
Written for Trifecta Writing Challenge week forty one, using 

Sunday, 2 September 2012


In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about computers: control; alt; delete.

Written for Trifextra challenge week thirty one: