Here’s Some of My Published Fiction (Don’t Laugh, I Know it’s Shit!)

Posted: March 14, 2011 in graffiti living

Drowning Rejection - A Writer's Rejection Letter

Anything that you turn into art, you have the right to destroy. Or, you know, you could always post it on your blog.

American Policeman

They’re watching me in black and white. Not the pregnant teen looking for a place to sit, or the young boy hunched over in front of the second hand bookshop. That place is known for trouble. Of all the people they could watch, the camera has singled me out. I’m not supposed to smoke here.
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Chicken and the Road

I woke when my head hit the glass. Not the persistent rattle like before – head lolled against the window, full weight pressed against the edge of my right ear – but hard enough to bruise. I’d had my head pressed against it so long that all I could feel was the throbbing of the glass against my ear as the coach moved down the motorway, against my ear like a conch shell but I didn’t hear the ocean. All I could hear was the road – different speeds produced their own vibration. I’d sleep and it was always the same dream of the road, dreams of where you are now, not where you are going. I’d jump back awake at sudden turns in the road.
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First I recognise the door. There is no difference between this door and any of the others set into the dull grey stone building. As high as I can see, none of the floors have any windows. The stone is far older than I remember it being from the night before. There is a bronze plaque on the door, but its engraving has been rubbed out. I can’t recall if I’ve ever read the sign, or know what it means. Now it’s a mute symbol, as closed as the door I must go through.
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Words press into me as a description of the candle-lit room. Floorboards stripped back to old wood, with a mattress written into one corner. A carving knife sits on the table near the door, with its serrated edge against the wood’s throat. Condensation breathes against bare glass with no curtains to hide behind. The panes of the large bay window are unreadable mirror pages, black with heavily repeated text. To the right, a smaller leaded window is barred like a prison cell. Candles burn on many levels. Flames writhe in spastic silver shadows on the damp walls.
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Random Green Man

Dreadlocks hid Jake’s face from dirty looks as he pushed his way to the front of the cinema queue. There was a young girl in an expensive coat just in front of him. He got hold of her arm and turned her around.
‘What on earth are you wearing?’ she said.
‘This is my special top’ he grinned. ‘I’ve had it for years, every time I wear it something weird happens.’
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