Caught Between the Wind and the Waves

It was cold and a blizzard was moving in,
The mood had dropped 10 degrees.
As the dust settled, the trees ceased to move,
It was motionless and still.

Sitting in depression, abhorred at the world,
Oppressed by my own faulty memory.
A wise man came by, from a distance I spied,
To lift the glumness from I.

When the wise man arrived, his eyes on the prize, he cast a gaze over the illusion,
“All of this, you see, is rested in me and equally within yourself”.

Speaking in riddles, with a lilt so empirical, the wise man motioned to the door,
with a tunic of white, stark against the night he spoke of a world so flawless.

I found myself trapped, between the wind and the wise man,
Unaware of what would come next,
the sound of the sea, so relaxing and coarse,
“It’s the energy that drives us through”.

Down past the beach, along past the pier,
Lay a scene of serenity and beauty,
As he stated, against the raging wind,
“The world is beautiful, this you should know. The beauty is in everything you see”.

Micro fiction: A Man on the Edge

“A hallway lined with broken smiles and half shut eyes, an entire line of prose cast into the distance.
This fleeting sunset, half forgotten and paved with intentions of gold. One thousand men laughed as another thousand jeered, which side were you on? “
– Anon, 1933

This was inscribed on the wall to the side of Clarkes bed as he contemplated releasing himself from it. The air had grown cold overnight though, so staying in bed seemed like a wise option. Sleep still tugged at his eyelids and he found himself fighting off the next batch of 40 winks.

He was up.

The floorboards creaked and shuddered as he made his way down the hall, one side of his house completely obliterated from the night before: Spray paint, an oil drum, broken bottles and cigarettes. This was not his flat anymore…it was before the party but now it was no longer.

He felt an overwhelming urge, an urge like never before, to make a mad dash for the door and break loose from the box that was his dwelling. He made a concession for the sickness, but the headache was sure to stick for the rest of the day.

As Clarke got dressed he began to recall bits and pieces from the day before, random memories inching ever closer to his consciousness. A long sigh almost gave way to cheeky vomit, but he composed himself and continued getting dressed.

By 10.30am he was dressed and ready to leave. He had put his mask on for the day and shined his boots to look extra impressive. The hangover was subsiding now but the world was still fuzzy. No matter, he thought “When I’m up in the air everything is sure to clear”. By pinning his famous wings to the front of his tunic, Clarke began to embrace the famous persona that many people associate him with. Unlike Batman he had no Batcave, he had no expensive toys – he was just a man who could do an extraordinary thing.

At this conjecture he found it appropriate to contemplate just exactly how got into this business of saving lives. In many ways making an excuse for his past had inadvertently given rise to a need him that was almost pathological – the need to survive and help others survive. He found that regardless of how morally reprehensible his nature was outside of the costume that it was all justified when he was IN the costume. It was quite remarkable. During the day he was just some random jobless drunkard and by night he a paragon of hope and justice in this city.

He climbed the stairs to the roof. Only the janitor and he had a key for the roof. A roof is vital for a hero who can fly however he had to reveal the nature of his identity in exchange for a roof key. A small price to pay, Clarke wagered, as he walked onto the roof.

Clarke surveyed his surroundings – his city. He knew every nook, every hiding place a deviant or a less than honest citizen would hide. His daytime persona allowed him to liaise with people who knew this kind of information and he found it to be his most valuable asset, worth the hangover? It used to be, but as he gets older the greater a sacrifice his sobriety is.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Clarke walked to the edge of the roof and looked down. Lifting his arm he exhaled and took a step off the building. He sobered up instantly.

It was only then he realised that his hangover was also a come down from the combination of the drugs he had taken the night before and as he sped towards the ground, the wind in his hair, he realised that he wasn’t a flyer at all, but merely a very skilled and very highly trained acrobat. The memory of the night before came rushing back to him and he suddenly realised that he’d left his grappling hook in the house.

The landing was going to be somewhat awkward.

The Great King Calamity Appreciation Society

A powerful wind blows through here,
Every year I find myself on it.

A man stands so cold in a city so old, wandering out of his skin.
Looking for a job, a place to settle in, construction or plumbing or some such thing.

A girl on the street singing the Pet Shop Boys, rhyming too fast to tell,
Stigmata on her hands, a bible in her arms – a baby trapped within her shell.

Star crossed lovers, or crossed star haters, never the twain shall meet,
Sinking fast, or rising slow – they’ll never known when they live on the streets.

Like a violent rage, such a bloody rage…

In a mind so twisted, a life constricted a chance to settle everything,
So roll the dice baby, I ain’t got time to waste. Let’s get on our bike and end this tonight.

Little jack Horner sat in corner eating his curds and whey,
Along came a man, a gun in his hand,
And blew poor Jackie Boy away.

A Quiet Kind of Pandemonium

Up here on floor four, I can hear the rain against the door,
Against a dewy window, beating off the pane,
I can hear the rain acoming, hear it once again.

It blows with a wind, not a gentle air,
Whistling over rooftops, gutters and stairs.

So when you look out on a cold damp night,
With a brisk breeze drumming to the beat of the moonlight,
You’ll notice the storm breaking, you’ll see the clouds fade,
It will paint quite the picture as the dawn breaks.

And I’ll be thinking of you in a land far away, wishing you were here, here to stay.

Micro fiction: Hotel Patrolman

The lobbies of hotels are all the same the world over – a buzz with bellboys, business men, couples and maybe the occasional diplomat. I sit here at 3pm every day. They make a mean cup of coffee.

I read a newspaper and try to fit in with the crowd but when you look like me, it’s harder than you might think. The newspaper I read is simply a disguise of course, don’t we all wear disguises? It hides the fact that I’m deep in thought, thinking about liberty, justice and how I can make the world a better, safer place. You could say I’m something of a police man except I have no badge and I don’t really belong to any department but I do go on patrol from time to time.

Some may call me a vigilante.

They’re wrong of course; they just don’t know the organization I’m affiliated with. Anyway, as I sit here with my coffee and newspaper, gazing at it with a glazed look, I usually put my headphones in for effect. I’m lucky in the sense that my organization have given me an iPod that allows me to tune into the emergency services radio frequency. By the way, did I say that the hotel is two blocks from the police station? Yeah, that’s another reason why it’s convenient.

So each day I sit here and I wait – headphones in, staring at the newspaper. Occasionally I’ll glance up at the TV screen in the lobby to see if the 24 hour news channel they run has reported anything interesting – any emergency situation that might require my attention – but every time I look at that thing, no matter what’s on it I always think to myself, why is there a TV showing 24 hour news in the lobby? No one ever stops to look at it. I imagine if the world were ending these people would still go about their daily business. It puzzles me but then again, I was never really good with puzzles anyway. I’m ok with codes though, I guess I sort of have to be.

Given that I’m not called away, my phone is always sitting in my lap just in case an important business call comes through; I sit in the hotel lobby for about 2 hours. Around about 5pm the hotel suddenly gets busier and that’s usually a good time to slink off leaving no trace. It’s probably customary to leave your newspaper behind when you’re done with it but I never seem to get all the way through it because in between the police frequencies being beamed directly into my ear and the deep thoughts I have about righting wrongs in the world, I rarely make it to the TV listings in the middle.

I don’t usually get called away though. In fact, between you and me, I never get called away. Sure crime happens but the police are usually quick to respond to it and, if I’m honest with myself, I’m a little scared to pop along to the scene of the latest emergency because who knows what’ll happen if a vigilante turns up. What if I get arrested too?

Ergo, I wait.

I used to find myself interested in watching the people who come in and out of the hotel. Some are couples who’re not really together. The air between them is fraught with sexual tension yet they never touch; a lover’s tryst that culminates in a hotel room. Naturally I never stay long enough to know if they stay for a night or just a few hours – neither would surprise me in any regard. You often get business men from out of town checking in and occasionally some diplomat. Sometimes accompanied by an entourage and sometimes they’re alone but either way they are always on the phone nattering away in some foreign dialect or language.

The lobbies of hotels rarely differ though, and these days I watch the people less and less. You would be surprised at the sheer lack of shady characters you see in places like this. I originally picked this spot in the hopes of finding some shady looking Eastern European, Middle Eastern or Latin American drug lord checking in, or maybe some familiar faces from abroad that are wanted in their native lands but it’s yet to happen. I used to come in at 12pm and leave 10pm. But what was once a 10 hour shift has become a 2 hour shift. I’m always eager to leave.

The buzzing in my ear is suddenly becoming fevered, much more distinct. The police scanner has lit up like children’s toy and I’m hearing multiple people speaking of how a bank robbery is in process in the cities central bank. By my calculations they’ll probably steal millions and we can’t have that. The location is spat out by various voices on the radio so I decide to take a note of it on my hand. It’s time to leave, I think.

Today, I’m leaving my paper. I won’t need it. I think to myself “I’m tomorrow’s news anyway” and before I know it I’m excited. I’ve sat here for months and months waiting for something to happen so I can make a difference in this city. I make a bee line for the revolving doors and run through them at great speed only to be stopped in my tracks.

My cape’s caught in the door. Bugger.


I’ve sat here all day trying to think of something to write…but nothing seems to come.

So, my “plan” to use this to inspire me to write more appears to be crumbling around me.

Words, words who’s got the words?
I left them at the door, left them at the…somewhere…

Over there?