The desk is like any other in construction.  Sturdy wood that had been worked into legs, drawers and a smooth flat desktop.  It had been painted or vanish at one time but was now sanded and painted again.

On the one end of the desk there is a digital clock, it reads the correct time in red light.  There is an out tray next to digital clock.  It contains bills, paper for drawing, photographs not yet in frames and a charged iPod.  The iPod is blue but a lighter blue than the digital clock.  Next comes a battered mug full of pens, pencils and highlighters.  Some of the pencils aren’t sharpened.  There is sticky tape in a holder and a blue telephone – it is the worst blue of the three.

And then there are books.  Animator, anatomy, rigging, timing for animation, 3D, cell – so the list goes.  They are propped up against a black shiny PC with a flat screen.  The books are for the programmes on the PC.  There is a tablet next to the keyboard as well as a charger for camera batteries.

And in among all the digital art there is little music box.  It sits very quietly, lost in the modern world but older than all of it.


Missing you

Richard stood proudly before the full length mirror. Unlike him, it was plain and unadorned where is hung behind the bathroom door. Unlike some, he could get into trouble if he felt without a final check of his appearance, it was very important all the time but especially today. Today he stood making sure it was all perfect. He would make them proud. He gave his appearance a final once over in his mind –

Shoes – black, standard issue, buffed and polished; laces, new and taut. Socks – black, new, folded down once. Pants – new, pressed to a crease, firm blue with clean white stripe. Belt – old, black leather, polished, buffed steel buckle. Shirt – crisp, white and starched, all buttons accounted for. Jacket – dress, pressed, firm blue with clean white stripe; brass button – polished front and cuffs; lapel – embroidered insignia free of loose strands, Star of Bravery, gold strip for surviving the war; epaulette – brushed, stripe of rank Colonel. Peaked cap – polished and starched. Lastly, face – clean shaven, no hint of bruising, composed.

He had had his hair cut but no one would see under his cap but he would know. Today had to be perfect because it was not perfect at all. Richard didn’t know if he could be perfect when his friends were lying in the ground. No gold strip on the lapel for them. They were gone, and today he would stand in the cloudless sky as the rain fell down his face.

Ghost Hunter 2

The map did say ghost town.  But somehow, I thought it was just a really small town.  I glanced at the map again before I went in.  Ah, Ghost Town.  Oops, it’s little things like that that get you killed – repeatedly.

Being a ghost hunter is not all that easy.  You have make sure you have all that you need, you forget one little thing and you’re toast.  A misread is defiantly one of those little things.  So I don’t have everything I need.  The smaller ghosts are no problem, they are not that strong.  They are also easier to see – they let off a faint glow.  With some great timing and a handful of pre-emptive strikes I can vanquish them without dipping into my limited, so limited, supplies.

The bigger ones are a lot trickier, I need more than great timing.  I check my supplies as I hit the halfway mark and if I’m really, really crazily lucky, there will only be two large ghosts – it’s all I can handle right now.  But I’m only half way and I’ve already killed seven.  Everyone knows the second half is harder.  Maybe I can just run through the town and get out the other side.  But then I won’t be paid.  People only pay once you’ve finished the mission.  I also can’t level without clearing the town.  I see my own death before me.

I really need an item shop.

It’s all in the stops

It’s all about the stops.

And~ Go!

One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, STOP. One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, STOP. One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, STOP.

The words one and two – how long are you holding those? Long enough? Short enough? You can’t hear it in the words, you have to feel it in the beats. And when you take breath, there is silence, a stop in sound. What is in the silence? It is in the silence before the storm that cascades through your memories that lies… You know that tune… Do you remember?

Do you remember love? It is in the stops – the moment of no sound as you hear, the moment of no breath as you see, the moment of no doubt as you feel, the moment of no fear when you know.

Just as it begins with a stop, it all ends with a stop. The one, two tattoo of your heart stops, the breath stops. It’s all about the stops.

Pickled Spanners

In a pickle. What kind of phase is that? Now you’re in a pickle. A more fitting phrase would be – now you’re fucked! Maybe pickles are fucked. Drowned for months in brine after being ripped from their vines, only to be eaten… Yeah, fucked. Being in a pickle is bad enough but it’s worse when you are not the only pickle left in the jar. It’s a pickle jar – it’s airtight.

So how does one find themselves in a pickle? Simple really, you go with the impulse – spanner. You came up with it – make something with it. You must have had an idea when you said it. It wasn’t because you were wearing a spanner around your neck, was it?

Yes, yes it was.

It’s getting out of the pickle that’s the hard part. You have to think. Attempt to free yourself from the airtight pickle jar. Take a firm grip on your imagination and twist.

The bolts had come loose once more. It wouldn’t be long before the thing fell apart again. It really was a piece of crap but it was mine and it was all I had. What a pain, a physical pain in my head. Pounding like a hammer, crushing like a vice and sharp as a chisel. Take the drugs, my spanner, tighten the bolts of my pain and close shop on the migraine.

Cheh – it’s not even a drabble…



He stood very still as the feathers fell.  Collecting at his feet, forgotten memories.  Maybe they were his memories.  Memories as unreliable as feathers in the breezy air.  This way, that way – which way is true?  Which memory is true?

He reached out and grabbed one of the floating feathers and brought it to his chest, making the memory his.  But he knew as soon as he opened his hand the memory would fly away and be lost in the swirling memories around him.  So they weren’t his memories.  He was lost without his memories and felt so alone.  Quickly, in desperation, he reached out again and again gathering as many memories as he could.  He would keep them all.  They would all be his, pressed to his heart because it knew the truth.  He would hide the truth with the forgotten memories that weren’t his own. He would not be lonely and the illusion of his sanity would not be ruined.

But his heart would not be hidden.  It mocked him for his vain attempts, his deluded ideas.  He wept as the feather fell from wilted hands, his heart laughing.  Slowly, tentatively, he reached into his heart and began to pull free his own memories.  It hurt but they were his.  He began to remember… There was so much sadness at first but he pushed his way through the sorrow and the heartache and found laughter.  It was his – he was laughing.


Every kid has a favourite bedtime story.  The story they want to hear over and over.  My bedtime story was the best and my mother was the best at telling it.  It started with a man, a man full of faith.  This man was so full of faith that he believed it was his destiny, no, his purpose to rid the world of all evil.  He had been ordained by his god to do this.  And he believed he would be victorious.

Every night he would set out to rid the world of the evils that festered in the dark corners and seeped into forgotten thoughts.  He would go forth with his cross, his holy water, his book and his utter conviction that he was right – his true belief.  The story went on to tell of the horror that he came across, the fallen and the unmentionable.

My brothers and I would sit, begging for more as the sun started to rise.  Once more before we go to bed, oh, please.  Once more so our day dreams were filled with our heroics – we would vanquish this man, his faith would fall before us and our might.  We were children in shadows but in our dreams, we were heroes.  Hail the victorious Undead.



It used to be a sure thing.  Sunrise.  Golden rays creeping over the ground, lighting the world.  Not that the sun doesn’t light the world now.  I’m just not there to see it.  I see the sun, alright – you can’t miss it in space.  Actually, you can’t miss them – they are everywhere.  And nowhere.  Speed of light?  Fast.  There are no windows other than the bridge.  What is the point of a window when you are moving too fast to see anything.

Out here you live by sure things.  They keep you sane, they keep you safe and they keep you alive.  To be sane – it is a sure thing that your contract will end and you can return to Earth.  Safe? Don’t accept things from strangers – there are many strangers in the long dark.  And alive – you will die in space, there is no air.  Soon, my sunrise.


I am waiting for his return – my one sure thing.  My days are long and alone without him.  I have no strength for the day and the sun seems to blind me.  I know he sees many suns out there but here is his sunrise.  Together we will watch the sunrise, huddled in the chill purple air.  First, light will hit us and then the warmth will seep into us.  Giving us strength for the day.  My days will be short and I will be happy.  Soon, his sunrise.

Warm Soup

Falcon sat still in the warm afternoon sunlight, the warmth eased his aches. The air was still and the churned ground empty after the fury that had spread across it some hours ago. The wounded were resting, the weary were watching and the dead were at peace.

The battle had been long. Neither side gaining but both loosing. All were tired – tired of fighting, tired of living on the edge. Those that did not walk the green field of Elysium wished for home. But home was far away behind them and there were battles before them. And until the path was clear there would be no returning home.

Fires had been lit and food was being prepared. The smell of cooking barely masked the smell of earth, sweat, blood and death. But after so long on the battlefield Falcon only smelt the food. His stomach growled with hunger. He knew it would be soup again. He had no desire for soup. For days they had been eating soup. No wheat meant no bread so the cooks made do with what could be found on the trampled earth. Twigs and roots throw in a pot. Boil it long enough and it became soup. But with so many men to feed options were limited so soup it was – day in day out.

Falcon gazed across the front line bathed in setting light. All that meat on the battlefield… It would be a shame to waste.