Sunday, January 29, 2017


Tim's Dreams

“Wear a blindfold and follow the hordes. Blindness is liberating. Not even the venerable elders will lead us through. Don’t fight it. That growing lightness cradles a fading uncertainty, a state of alluring oblivion, of complete exemption, it will free us.”

“Turn it off. That’s depressing.”
The silence invaded the darkest corners of the room as the two friends sat side by side in front of the TV.
“Did you notice she was pregnant?”
“I don’t want to think about it.”
“Did you notice…”
“You’re wearing your blindfold already… You’re doing what they want.”
“Just shut the hell up.”

Sunday, January 22, 2017


Dark Moon

Right by the bus stop, Roger noticed a strange flower. It seemed to have grown exponentially overnight.
He walked closer and noticed the flower was panting. Suddenly, it spat out some bones.
Roger jumped back, alarmed, hiding behind the glass of the bus stop. Those looked like fingers, he thought.
“Where’s the damn bus?”
The following morning, the reports on TV were slightly intriguing. A whole bus and a young man waiting at the bus stop had mysteriously vanished.

“I think we have finally developed it right. We are ready to take over that miserable planet. Start the count down.”

Saturday, January 21, 2017

A Shark Doesn't Always Look Like a Shark


I worried and worried about someone, and then...
Three words were enough.
I had a decision to make.
Should I look at those three words and take them as a heartfelt remark or should I choose not to be completely moronic and read them for their true meaning? A veiled insult buried under a layer of pseudo-venting self-pity aimed at asserting a pathetic sense of ownership, a desperate attempt to announce to the world how fleeting and unimportant something was when, in fact, it is life-changing.
The cursor blinked on my screen while I read those three words over and over again.
I was then faced with another decision. Should I leave a comment, perhaps buried under a layer of pseudo-jocular animosity or should I just close the website and ignore it?
I made my decision.
I will not worry again, but I shall not forget.
I have three words of my own.
Enough is enough.
Oh, and here are another three words.
Forget about it.
Yep. And to wrap it all up, three more.
Moving on indeed.

Sunday, January 15, 2017


Magical Farm

The party was scheduled for ten.
Lucia stressed over everything, the lights, the music, the food, the lights.
“What’s wrong with the lights?”
“Honey, they are crooked.”
“The lights are fine.”
She shrugged and walked away to stress over the food again.
Eleven and no one had arrived.
“Where is everyone?”
Midnight and nothing.
The next morning, Lucia received an email signed by everyone, claiming they had orchestrated that revenge for some obscure reason she couldn't understand.
She didn't care. She was still fixated on the crooked lights.
“The lights were fine!” yelled Peter from the kitchen, reading her mind.

Sunday, January 8, 2017


Magical Farm

Her last wish was to have the room filled with balloons.
While she was sleeping, they brought them in.
The look on her face when she woke up was extraordinary.
She smiled, her eyes sparkling with excitement, mesmerized by the soft swaying of a multitude of colors.
Suddenly, she reached for the cord of one of the balloons and frowned.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
“Mommy, we must free them now. They won’t be happy locked in here.”
So, they opened the window and, one by one, the balloons were set free, as was her young tired heart later that night.

Monday, January 2, 2017

2016 in a Nutshell


Being willing to experiment is, in my opinion, one of the most important aspects of being a writer. I have tried my hand at several different genres and, as a result, I found myself dabbling with erotica. We'll see what happens.

Finally, I was rather surprised, not to say shocked, when I realized the total number of words written in 2016 (most of them unpublished) was a whooping 457857.

More in 2017.

"Study the past, if you would divine the future."


Sunday, January 1, 2017


Milk Wood

The key to a delightfully horrid celebration is to get that special treat from the freezer and display it in the lounge at work.
At some point, his colleagues asked why the room was so cold.
All he did was point. And there it was.
“Is that… a real arm?” someone asked, disgusted.
He nodded enthusiastically, adding that he had chopped it off himself. And how he managed to work that middle finger into a perfect position!
But there was no time to brag.
“Happy New Year and all that,” he managed to yell as he escaped through the back-door.