A few months ago the Dundee Rep ran a short story competition, you can find the details here. Any-who long story short about entering a short story competition, I sadly did’t win. Since I didn’t win I figured I might as well post it on here. Enjoy.




Those who deserve our thoughts are never those who have them. I have a loving wife and four grown children, but those I love are never those I give my thoughts. My mind wonders now, more than it use to and more than I’d like. A hazy summer day filled with blinding light is how I remember her. Illusions tinged with yellow and a gentle breeze from an open window form the world in which I live. As my wife takes my hand I watch her leave with the older boys, the boys her own age, older than I was then and younger than I am now. Moments before we were closer, encompassing each other, now only a hand cups mine, biding. She wants to leave and be with me at the end but the other boys are waiting, cheering at the other side of the curtain as a shard of light breaks through the dust. Blinding. I focus on it as it moves back and forth from darkness, trying to find something tangible in the motion to hold. It was their idea and she leads me to my room. Draping hair sweeps against my face as swelling eyes begin to weaken. “It’s almost time” and all three of us know it. A switch is flipped and it’s done, a last slow breath escapes. I am calm for the first time and the last time in my life. Her grip on my hand tightens as she rolls off to embrace. A new step has been taken, a different world awaits. She lays and sits beside me, breathing heavy as tears start to fall. I want to hold her then, the way she holds me now. She starts to slip away and her grip never fails. “You can let go now if you want?” they tell me. I want to hold on, but I don’t know how. A yellow summer dress falls around her shoulders. I want to force her to stay, but I don’t know how. She’s too delicate. I don’t know how to act yet. I follow her sheepishly past the hall and to the door as she leaves. I notice the flowers by me on the bed. I don’t remember who brought them, no doubt a comfort in another wise sterile room. I hold one out for her to take. She smiles and walks away, the other boys are waiting. Her hand breaks free and the light is blinding. She’s walking away with the other boys; they’re older than I was then and younger than I am now. I can barely look and the light is blinding. She’s walking away with the other boys and my wife kisses me for the last time. I can barely see and the light is blinding. I can barely see and the light is blinding.





I had a big list of reasons regarding what I didn’t like about the Ice Bucket challenge and why I didn’t want to do it (most of them were centred around production value and why people insist on filming in the wrong aspect-ratio). Then I had an idea and I found it funny.

The film is indented to be a parody of perfume ads, as (lets be honest) most of them are frinkin’ ridiculous  as in “I’m not going to be what you want me to be anymore” – alright… not quite sure what that is supposed to mean and how it relates to perfume, but ok. Any-who I was going for a faux French New Wave vibe, hope that comes across.

So long story short, it turns out I will completely ignore my morals and better instincts for the chance to make people laugh. Enjoy the result, I proudly give you ‘Water’

Header Images/Test

So I’ve been messing around with look of the site, and playing with the header images (the header image should change when you refresh the page) and thought it might be fun to post the originals and not just the little strip you see at the top. Now I can’t claim to have taken all of these picture (mainly because I’m in one of them) but they were all taken on my camera, so the way I figure it I basically own the rights to them. This post should also serve as a test as I’ve linked this site to Facebook and Twitter and this post should automatically appear on my timelines without me having to do anything. So here’s hoping.

Hot coals - Taken in Glen Nevis

Hot coals – Taken in Glen Nevis


Me doing a hand stand - Taken on Magdalen Green by Craig Mooney

Me doing a hand stand – Taken on Magdalen Green by Craig Mooney


Diablo - Taken again on Magdalen Green and again by Craig Mooney

Diablo – Taken again on Magdalen Green and again by Craig Mooney



Lego Dinosaur – Taken in living room of my old Perth Road flat


Snow - Taken in the bedroom of a different old flat. Interesting little titbit, this photo is part of the inspiration behind my short story Polystyrene.

Snow – Taken from the bedroom of a different old flat. Interesting little titbit, this photo is part of the inspiration behind my short story Polystyrene.

It’s Not Weird That I Can Write about Not Writing Right?

I often have this overwhelming urge to write something but have nothing I want to write about. This is not one of those times. For as it stands I have an overwhelming urge to write about something and do in fact have something I want to write about. Turns out for some reason I still can’t; and I am instead writing a post (this post) about not being able to write about what it is I want to write about.


A little background and context might help fill in why this is, or (and this seems more likely) at the very least bulk up the word count on this post. I’ve decided what I’m going to write my first book on and oh boy is it going to be overly complicated and convoluted much like the above paragraph. The opening premise is basically that:


Arthur Monroe, 88, bad back and grumpy, falls asleep while fishing on a lake. He wakes to the sound of screaming and discovers he’s alone and lost at sea during a storm. Meanwhile as the storm rages outside her bedroom window 8-year-old Molly wakes in the middle of the night screaming and scared of what’s lurking in the shadows. Something has been stealing children in the dark of night.

Little do they know that before the storm breaks Molly will scream twice more and herald the death of a one time god.

photo.PNGIt’s going to be a kid’s story about coming to terms with death. Cheery I know. It, for the most part is also going to be influenced by Irish mythology. This is something for the past several weeks I have been doing a lot of research on. So far I’ve came to two conclusions. The first is that it is crazy how well it’s going to fit with the story I have planned. The second, my ability to pronounce names and places in Irish is truly shocking. For example did you know that as far as I can tell Tuathmumhain should be pronounced Too-moon? All I can say is thank Dia for The Dictionary of Irish Mythology. The research while fascinating has been at times quite laborious. A lot of the stories I’ve been reading are translated from texts like The Yellow Book Lecan (pronounced Bob for all I know) and The Book of Ballymote (probably just pronounced the way you’d think)which were written in ogham, which is based on old Irish. Sadly this means the prose isn’t always the most gripping or dare I say coherent. I’m going to stick with it though, for what I do reference in my book, characters and otherwise, I want to reference correctly… as long as it’s convenient to the plot of my story. ‘Cause if they don’t fit I have absolutely no qualms about changing them.


Anywho, back to the point of this post and why I can’t start writing my book. I think I’ve built it up in my head too much. So that it has gotten to the point where I’m quite daunted by it and the thought of making a blog entry becomes a convenient way of procrastinating. I know that I just need to sit down and write it, I just can’t seem to bring myself to do it. I think part of the problem is that I don’t have a deadline to have it finished by. I don’t feel any pressure to have it done by a certain time.


Anyway, guess I better get back to it, time to stare at a blank word document some more. Actually shit no it’s not, I need to start getting ready for work.


Ramble over,



The Host With the Most

I wrote this script as more of an exercise than anything else, but I was quite pleased with the results. It was intended as a dark comedy, which I hope comes across in the writing. Hopefully one day it will see the light of day and we (Inside the Box) get to film it. On a side note, I may not be brilliant at names.

To view the script in the correct format >click here<  (which I recommend doing) or just keep scrolling to read on this page.



MAN walking down the street. He is being followed by FOLLOW MAN. Whenever MAN looks behind, FOLLOW MAN ducks out of sight. (Badly) This happens several times. Until MAN Says


Ok seriously, why do you keep doing that?


Doing What?


Ducking out of the way, whenever I look.


Oh, right. You seen that huh?


I get a bit nervous round famous people.




I never know what to say. I get a bit worried they might think I’m weird or something.


Yeah. I’m getting that, but I’m not famous. So you know, if you could…


Come on. I get the need for secrecy and all, but come on. It’s you. The Host With the Most.


It’s really not.


Tobias, I watch your show every night. Wait I can call you Tobias right?


Nope. Not my name.


Brilliant I knew you wouldn’t mind.


Ok. Great to meet you, but I’m going to walk this way now.


Oh right yeah, of course. Was really nice to meet you. Tobias.

MAN walks off muttering weirdo to himself. In the background FOLLOW MAN can be seen pulling a large suitcase out of a hedge. FOLLOW MAN opens the suitcase and takes out a baseball bat. FOLLOW MAN takes a practice swing and seems pleased with the result. FOLLOW MAN runs towards MAN and hits MAN across the head with the bat. MAN is knocked out and falls to the ground. FOLLOW MAN throws the baseball bat away triumphantly. It dawns on FOLLOW MAN what he has just done.


What have I just done? That bat is going to be absolutely covered in evidence.

FOLLOW MAN retrieves the bat and drags MAN towards the suitcase. FOLLOW MAN awkwardly shoves MAN into the suitcase. Next we see FOLLOW MAN walk along the footpath, bat over his shoulder and the suitcase (which has wheels) being dragged along beside him.



MAN is tied to a chair behind a kitchen table. Behind the table a sheet covers the wall. SPORTSCAST WITH TOBIAS FLYNN has been crudely written across it, an arrow from the Words TOBIAS FLYNN has been painted also. It points to where MAN is sitting. MAN is now wearing a suit. MAN begins to wake up as FOLLOW MAN enters the Living Room; FOLLOW MAN is now wearing a woman’s dress.


Brilliant you’re awake. I was getting worried you’d miss tonight’s show, but nope here you are just in time. Tobias Flynn, the constant professional.


(Still groggy)

Huh? Wait. What?


Don’t worry about that Tobias. Just focus on getting ready for the show.

MAN is still trying to raise his head as FOLLOW MAN is sitting down beside him. FOLLOW MAN misconstrues this as MAN looking at his breasts.


Hey, eyes up here mister. I need you concentrating on the show, not the milk shooters.


Show? What the fuck are you talking about?

(Looks down and sees that he is wearing different clothes)

Did you change my clothes?


Well you got blood all over your other ones. Plus you always wear a suit for the show.


What? Why do you keep talking about a show?


Oh, Shush. We’re about to go live. Just read your queue cards and look at camera three.

(FOLLOW MAN points at nothing in front of them)


What cameras?


Let me the fuck go.


Five. Four.

(Counts Three, Two, One on his fingers)

Good evening, it’s Saturday the 8th of May I’m Christina Aguilera and this is the man with the most, the man who likes to boast, my Co-host Tobias Flynn.

(Pause… FOLLOW MAN nudges MAN)

Tobias it’s your line.


Please just let me go.


Ha ha ha, what an odd thing to say.


Just read from the queue cards.


Why are you doing this?

FOLLOW MAN looks embarrassed and flustered.


What a funny joke you made there Tobias. HA HA HA. Why don’t we cross over to Gerry at Dundee United for todays match highlights. Ok we’re off the air. Jesus Tobias what the fuck was that? Get your shit together.


I was supposed to be meeting my girlfriend.


Do you even care how unprofessional that looked?



I’m not Tobias Flynn, I don’t have a sports show. Please just let me go.


You’re being really weird today. Have you bumped your head of something?


(Starts crying)

Help. Help, please, somebody.


(Looking of camera at some someone who isn’t there)

Listen Craig, I don’t know what’s gotten in to him but I can’t work under these conditions.


You’re absolutely mental.

WOMAN enters the living room. She is holding shopping bags. She sees what is going on and looks surprised. She drops the shopping bags.




My name’s not Tobias.


Well of course it’s not. Tobias what the hell is going on in here?


I was lied to and very much deceived, by this man here. He has somehow managed to convince me that I am not me, and that he is in fact me.


I haven’t. I swear I haven’t.


I know you haven’t sweetie, he does this sort of stuff all the time.


(to MAN)

Once, maybe twice a year. Max.


Can I please just go now?



Oh God no. See if people knew that Tobias got up to this kind of weird shit, his career would be over. I mean can you imagine, his show would be cancelled like

(Clicks fingers)

And god, I dread to think of the legal ramifications.


I’ll go get the shovel.


Shovel, what? No you don’t need a shovel. I’m not going to tell anyone.


Dude, come on. You got knocked out by a celebrity. Which by the way how did you not recognize me? I’m sort of a big deal. There are literally billboards all over the city with my face on them. You know what it doesn’t matter. Anyway you got knocked out by a really famous person, with a totally recognizable face, may or may not have had your junk fondled with while unconscious, got tied to a chair and made participate in a fake TV show. Which to be honest you were kind of sucky at. Of course you’re going to tell someone.


Just go get the damn shovel; I want to get this mess cleared up before dinner.

FOLLOW MAN grumbles and leaves the room. MAN begins desperately trying to escape from the chair, while shouting repeatedly.



WOMAN picks up the baseball bat and walks over to MAN.


Sorry about this.



FOLLOW MAN is dragging a suitcase from the back seat of a car. He looks like something has just dawned on him.


Forgot to get an autograph.



WOMAN is carrying the shovel. FOLLOW MAN is pulling the suitcase.


You should have changed that dress before you came out. You’re going to ruin it.


It’s my dress; I’ll wear it where I like.


Ok, but I’m not washing it.


To See the World

They say the World is small but I have never found this to be the case, for when I was a child I climbed a tree to see it. It hung over our back yard, in the winter its branches cast shadows like capillaries along the surface of the Earth. Full bodied, green leaves and pink flowers would blossom every summer. Grooves etch its bark, like fingertips soaked in a long bath. Green moss crept from the trunk, like a slow marching army, threatening one day to conquer all. From the peak you could see as far my as childhood stretched; all the way to the other boundaries of my neighborhood. If you looked from here you could see in-between the other houses and make out the tip of our driveway. It was from there that I was able to watch the van as it drove along our street before stopping in our drive. Mum already had the car packed from the night before and had it parked on the curb. It was mostly furniture that was left to be moved and a few other pieces that Mum had said would be too big for the new place.  From the far left branch that stretched over the fence you could see into Tommy Morgan’s yard. My Mum never liked me hanging out with him because of rumors she had heard from other people in the neighborhood, but I never thought he was that bad, to me he was always just stupid Tommy Morgan, the kid who tried to jump dustbins on his bike and showed me pictures from his brother’s dirty magazines.

Dad told me once that the tree was haunted and because of this it had always fascinated me, part out of fear and part out of wonder. He said that a hundred years ago before our house was built a little boy had climbed it, but slipped and fell to his death. That now when other little boys climb it, he would push them off as easy as a gust of wind pushed dust. It’s strange at that age how we all just take what we are told to be truth, at the time it never once occurred to me that my father could be lying, that it is was just some sort of grownup joke or a way to keep me from playing in the tree in case I actually did fall and hurt myself. In a strange way this was probably the worst thing my dad could have told me, he had given the tree a sense of danger, given me the idea that there was something to prove by reaching its top. One Halloween when my cousins and Tommy came around we played a game where you turned off all the lights on the porch so the backyard was dark, you had to run up and touch the tree before the ghost got hold of you. In reality it was just a bunch of kids running back and forth from a tree but in our imagination the sense of peril was real, I remember being scared of the ghost but also scared that my cousins and Tommy would make fun of me if I didn’t do it. The game had become a rite of passage, a way to prove that you weren’t just a kid.

It was with Tommy that I first attempted to climb the tree; it was during the long summer months that you dream about all day while at school, but when they finally come you don’t have much to do, but sleep late and watch TV. Tommy came around to my house one of those mornings and told me that we were going to build a tree house. There was no doubt in his voice, just a steady confidence and the reassurance that he had it all worked out. He had even made a crude drawing that we were to use as a plan. He told me that he had a bunch of old wood left in his garage from when his parents got their new kitchen, and that his dad wouldn’t notice if we borrowed a few of his tools. The wood that Tommy was talking about was a cream coloured Formica, that was chipped around the edges and had holes where screws once were. We spent most of the morning throwing it over the fence from his garden to mine.  I was made to climb the tree first; Tommy said that because he was taller it would be easier for him to pass the wood up to me. That summer I wasn’t yet tall enough to reach the first branch, so Tommy had to give me a boost until I was able to wrap my arms around it. Tommy had let go of my feet and I could feel my arms slipping from around the branch, the weight of my body pulling me towards the ground. My legs instinctively kicked out searching for something to stand on, something that could hold my weight, but I was too far out from the trunk, my shoe could barely rub against it. During those moments I felt like I was drowning in a sea of air, desperately striking out for a ledge before the water pulled me under. It was then that I started shouting for Tommy to help me, for him to grab my legs again, instead he just started laughing. It was the shock of this that finally made me lose my grip, and sent me falling to the ground. I landed on my back and winded myself, it took me a couple of minutes to get my breath back and Tommy was still laughing by time that I had. He put his arm out to help me up, but instead of taking it I just pushed it away and walked towards my house. Tommy came after me and told me to stop being a little baby. Eyes fixed on the house I told myself that wasn’t the point, he was supposed to be my friend, but instead he just let me fall, I had hurt myself and all he could do was laugh. Like my father had lied about the ghost I was lying to myself, hindsight now tells me that it was my pride that was really hurt. Tommy’s laughing made me feel ashamed of my own short comings, like I was somehow a failure for not making it into the tree. Through a cocktail of laughter and words of you didn’t even fall that far, Tommy tried to get me to come back. Instead I shoved him out of the way causing him to trip over a bundle of the wood we had thrown over the fence that morning. One of the pieces was by my foot and I was able to pick it up before Tommy got back on his feet. I swung it, trying to hit him with it before he could hit me, but it broke over his arm as he blocked it. Thinking back I don’t know what I expected to happen, I am not even sure if I was thinking. This was the first fight I was ever in, if it even counts. The only real memory I have of what happened next, is being on the ground as Tommy ran away. I know I was crying and that my nose didn’t start bleeding until after I touched it. We never really spoke again after that, the last time I saw him was the day we moved out of the house. I was in the front seat with Mum while she let the removal van pull out of the drive. Tommy was watching from his bedroom window, staring at our car, when Mum started to drive off, he raised his hand to wave. I waved back, but to this day I don’t know if he saw it was me. I hope he did.


Experiments in Sleep Deprivation

It’s the eve of my final university deadline. A conclusion shaped bow has been stuck to the essay and all that’s left is the bibliography. My 2:1 classification is all but in the proverbial bag, yet my relief and joy is mixed with a dull sense of unease churning in my stomach. (Or maybe that’s just yesterday’s reheated takeaway) For the first time in my life I don’t know what happens next. Up until now I’ve always had a vague plan and a notion of how to achieve it. It was easy. Want go to university. See what grades I need, put in the work, get them. Now with graduation looming comes the realisation that I’ve no clear plan left. Do I want to do a masters? Can I get funding? Do I just try and get a job in television? Maybe just a proper job in general? What exactly does a degree in English Literature actually qualify me to do? Is this something I should have thought about four years ago? I’ve a novel I want to try and write, is that the way to go? What are the chances I’ll actually be able to get a book published? Is lack of sleep making me lethargic, a whine, ask to many questions? Yes. The answer to all is yes and that’s the problem and want to do each and all. I just need to figure out how to get the grades.



“You know none of this is real? It’s all just polystyrene.” These are the last words my father ever said to me. It’s the only clear memory I have of him that isn’t stolen from a photograph. It’s funny that isn’t it? How over the years memories lose their sharpness, their clarity. As though someone has pulled a veil over them, so that all you’re left with is a dull sense of a time and a place. The details blur but their meaning stays the same. Much of what I do remember during those weeks comes from my sister Katy, for years after she wouldn’t talk about it, every time I asked all she would ever say is that Dad was an asshole. It wasn’t until we were both in our twenties that she finally told me what had happened. I look back at those weeks with a different perspective now that I’m older; more of it makes sense to me. It was early December and there had already been a thick layer of snowfall. We were spending the holidays at my Grandparents cabin in New Hampshire, not far from Bean Pond. We usually only went up there for a couple of weeks each summer, but Mum had insisted on getting away for a while. I had always enjoyed the cabin during the summer, but in winter it had taken on an alien and hostile appearance. It was like the place I remembered from the summer had died. The trees that I had been so use to seeing full of life had disappeared; all that was left were damp and fragile branches that seemed almost black against the snow.

The cabin wasn’t big; it only had two bedrooms both of which opened from the main living area. Whenever we stayed there Katy and I had to share the smaller bedroom. At night it was hard to get to sleep, the wood burner kept the main room warm but at that time of year the bedrooms were still cold even under the covers. I found it hard to get proper sleep most nights. Outside stimuli would encroach upon my half conscious thoughts. My mind seemed perpetually stuck in the place before imagination ends and dreams begin. Rattling windows would occasionally bring me back to the room and to the familiar sound of Tracy Chapmen playing on Katy’s Walkman. Muffled voices from behind the wall would have discussions I couldn’t possibly understand at that age. Fragments stay with me even now, my mother asking, “Do you love her?” and my father saying “no.” In my half sleeping state the fear that hit me after hearing that resounding “no” was absolute. At that age it seemed natural to me that the only people you could love were the ones in your family. It would be several years before I realised he was talking about another women and not my sister. Even now I still feel a twang of guilt that my concern didn’t go to Katy, but to myself. That if he didn’t love my sister what then, did that mean for me? In the morning all that remained was the nagging sense that something wasn’t right. Whenever I was in the same room as our parents the silence would hang thick like warm breath on a bitter breeze, fogging whatever mood I was in. I know now that the silence was meant as a protection against their fighting but at the time it only created confusion for me. Making me doubt if what I had heard during the night was a cruel trick of slumber or a real conversation.

I spent most of the first week there in the clearing at the front of the cabin building snow forts and throwing snowballs into the forest during a make-believe war with the trees. It was one morning while I was doing this that Katy came running out of the cabin with the door slamming behind her, she headed straight along the lane towards the pond. Shortly after my parents came running out too. Mum was in the lead and carrying Katy’s coat. When dad started to follow she shouted at him, “For God sake I’ll go get her, you just stay with him.”

Dad spent the afternoon helping me to expand and reinforce the snow fort. I would start by making a snowball and rolling it along the ground until it got too heavy for me to push, then dad would take over until we both thought it was big enough to be lifted to the top of the fort. We would then pack snow around the latest ball to be added, pushing it into the gaps like cement surrounding a brick. Dad had had to lift me so I could reach the higher points in the wall. We made a good team, he would instinctively swoop me down like a plane coming into land whenever I needed more snow. More times than none we would miss the snow all together and would have to try the landing again, but this was part of the fun. It was starting to get dark by the time Katy and mum got back. Katy was in the lead and, like she did so much of the time back then, had her earphones on her head. Dad was in the middle of lifting a new snowball on to the fort when she waked past. Perhaps it was something that she was listening to, or just the sound of dad’s voice, but what happen next is one of the few times I have ever genuinely been afraid of my sister. Mid stride she turned, started screaming and ran towards my father. He was able to catch her and contain the violent swings of her arms as she tried to connect her fists with his chest. From what I remember he tried to calm her as best he could, but she struggled against every effort he made, kicking wildly in protest. It was the snow fort that took the physical burden of her out lash. With each kick a new hole or crack would appear in the wall, until eventually the whole side crumbled. I know now that it was my own anger and confusion that made me say what I said next. I didn’t understand why she was destroying something I had spent so much time building. I knew that I hadn’t done anything wrong. The fact that she could damage something I had built left me feeling hurt and betrayed. So with the intention of hurting her I said the one thing in my life I’ve never really been able to take back. “It’s not my fault he doesn’t love you.” I hated myself the moment I said it. It was only after the words had escaped my lips, and Dad was dragging her towards the cabin that I realised she was crying, and that it wasn’t so much her anger that had scared me, but her fear. Later that night in our bedroom I tried to talk to her, but I was drown out the sound of Fast Car. I don’t think anyone in the cabin got much sleep that night; most of it was spent with my Mum shouting at my Dad until the sun came up.

After a long period of silence I made my way out to the main living area. Dad was lying on the couch as I tried to sneak past. I was worried that he’s going to shout at me like I heard during the night. Instead he just looked up, smiled and told me not to wonder far, and that he’d come keep me company soon. It was several hours before he came out. It was lightly snowing and a slight breeze carried the flurry gently along the ground. He was wearing his yellow winter coat and had the cuffs of his navy ski gloves tucked inside the sleeves. His bomber hat was pulled tightly over his head with the earflaps unbuttoned; the fur lining clinging to the hairs of his beard like worn Velcro. I had spent most of the morning rebuilding my snow fort and remember thinking that he was coming to help, but instead he just knelt down beside me and ran the edge of his hand back and forth along the surface of the snow. Right then I could tell he was searching for the words to say, lost in his own thoughts trying to find a way to explain or even justify what it was he was about to do. In reality we were probably only sat there for about a minute, but in my memory it feels like an eternity. It wasn’t until the taxi reached the top of the drive that he finally raised his head to look at me. He had a slight smile on his face that was meant to be reassuring and half jokingly he said, “you know none of this is real? It’s all just polystyrene.” With a sigh he pushed his hands deep into the snow and rose. I wasn’t able to look at him as he walked to the taxi all I could do was stare at the beads of snow that swirled in the prints left by his hands.


It all started with a reflection in the mirror, and ended with the distinct sound of fracturing. I repeatedly, forcefully and purposefully slammed my head against it. Blood was dripping along vertical axis. Along white porcelain, boxers, and floor. The mirror was shattered and so to the façade of a retched fucking existence. A whole lays scattered on the floor with edges and points and sinew and nerves left exposed and raw. There was only one question left, one question that could ever be muttered from these lips. Who the fuck are you, and what have you done with my life?


I put my hand down and inside. I reclaimed what was mine.


It all started with a reflection in the mirror. This is an arbitrary statement, a misnomer. The mirror was merely a catalyst for the revelation, a facilitator for the realisation. Twenty years of bad decisions, supplemented with a dead-end job, a frigid wife and a shit for a son will create one tiny mass after another, that over the years come together to form a cancerous life.


I haven’t had sex in two years. I haven’t had sex with my wife in four. I fail to remember the last time I masturbated. Sometimes I wake up during the night with my penis in hand, and try to see it through to completion before the dream of whatever spurred it on recedes to my subconscious. This rarely happens.


My day starts the same way my day always starts, with my feet squirming on ceramic and my eyes squinting under florescent. Sometime ago my life fell into a pattern of mundane predictability. I blame my job for this, twenty years sitting at the same desk processing insurance claims. In the last two years four men in my office have died from heart attacks. One of them was younger than I am now. If I’m alive in ten years I’ll be old enough for my pension. I can’t decide if sitting all day in my house would be better than sitting all day at work. I miss the old days when I was still able to maintain an erection for long enough to fantasise about banging the office manager. Now I just sit at my desk and watch the smug little bastard who will one day be my boss stare at her tits every time she walks past.


She sees him when he does it. She likes it.


On a Friday night, the office descends on one bar or another. It doesn’t matter where. They all look alike. They all serve the same purpose.


Fluids flow forth.


In the morning detested.


We’re gathered around two tables. The bar we’ve stopped at is exceptionally busy, even for a Friday night. The younger members of the office prefer it that way. They enjoy the atmosphere generated by a crowd mostly their own age. After several drinks I understand why, the laughter and music is an infectious combination. It’s easy to make connections and take an interest in the people around you. Normally, on nights like these I would just have one or two and then leave.

It’s near eleven o’clock before the bar quietens down; most people have left to go home or to go out somewhere else.


It’s just me and a secretary left.


She’s blond and petite and quick to laugh. She’s stayed here longer than she had too. Turning down unwanted offers of dancing.


Music and chatter recede to low din.

Still is the world.

All but for me.


Sweats of hair stick to her face, as her head rests towards the wall. I can smell the scent of her perfume. My nose is by her neck. Lips shut, I breathe. Her silky skin caresses my hand as it glides up her thigh. A cold breeze snaps and my attention is stolen by the hand on my shoulder. The bar comes rushing in. Reformed.


“That’s enough” he says, “I think you’d better leave.”




“You’re done here.”


Outside the night has turned bitter; I turn my collar up against it and watch from across the road as two barmen carry her to a taxi. My mind screams with all the force it can muster, ‘come on then, hit me just fucking hit me.’ I’ve already decided that I don’t care what they do. How far they take it. I’m begging them, daring them to beat me until I’m a bloodied mess on the ground. I doesn’t matter how loud my mind screams. All I can do is stare. They fail to notice my presence.


The stars shine as I walk home.

I wake up during the night with my penis in hand and a scent in the air, and try to see it through to completion before the dream of whatever spurred it on recedes to my subconscious. The moment is gone. Faded.

Feet squirming on ceramic and eyes squinting under florescent, I stare at my reflection. I repeatedly, forcefully and purposefully slam my head against it. Blood drips along vertical axis. Along white porcelain, boxers, and floor. The mirror is shattered and so to the façade. There is only one question left, one question that could ever be muttered from these lips. Who the fuck are you, and what have you done with my life?


I put my hand down and inside. I reclaim what is mine.