NeonPaul

Chapter One: The Only Chapter I'll Write. There was a buzzing noise. I was aware of this, but not until I came into full consciousness did I realise it was a fly. I checked my watch. It was 3:15am. I was lying along a wall on a pile of unfamiliar clothes in a room that was slightly less unfamiliar but still hard to place. I thought hard about this. Then it came to me. "Christ!" I shouted. There was a mumbling from the bed behind me. The mind in the body under the covers had probably wanted to say "What?" but decided against it, forgetting to let the mouth and vocal chords know of the cancellation. Then I saw it. The little packet of Nat

The two men, now up to their shins in the water, stood staring into each other's eyes, both poised ready to react to the slightest movement. It was the one who stood closest to the cave entrance who spoke. "I be willin' to die fer this, Roger! I'll go all the way!" Mister Frear returned comment without a flinch, "And I'm planning on living - it sounds like we can work something out" The Pie Rat drew his cutlass and took half a step forward, motioning towards his old friend with it. "This be no time for clichés or comedy, old man. With the tide coming up we'll both drown if neither of us backs down - and I won't be backing down." "Then", c

As the last of the sun's light drifted away behind the horizon line, Miss Child turned her head from the various documents on her desk to gaze through her window. Her large, ginger, curly hair continued to oscillate slightly a little while after her motion stopped. Through the window she could see the sea shore, and the team of people pulling in their Lobster Pots before the sunset made the light too dim to work. She switched back to the top paper of the pile on her desk, titled "Lobster Pots". As she ran her red-nailed finger down the table of words and figures, a number caught her eye. It was a one. There hadn't been anything other than a

I sigh A bullet, round enough To block up where you violate my senses, or just Disconnect the images from what they pass as life A children licks their lips; A sentiment from way back, I remember how you Taught the mixture etiquette for dancing on the tongue The iron, trapped like flies, It sleeps eternal dreaming of a future or a Mirror of the past when life spent more time on its skin You failed to leave that day; There always lies betrayal from your format, hooked on Little things to lock them shut or I die little deaths And so the waffle tells me Innocently, "Mem'ry's not an option"... "I know," I say, "I find out ev'ry day