The young boy stared. He sat three or four pews ahead, towards the middle of the church. He was dressed in black and up until that moment had bowed his head when needed, sang songs or listed otherwise. He hadn’t done anything he shouldn’t until the centaur arrived. The half-man, half-horse dipped
The hallway stank of forgotten lunches and misery. At one end stood a tyrant, a young boy. He carved a drawing into a wall, his tool a box cutter. It was a terrible self-portrait. The cheeks were too chubby and the eyes lacked the hint of madness. Nearby smoldering plastic shoes burned,
“Hey, old man,” called out Ross. Ross had been bragging that he’d managed to make a hundred dollars from bare knuckle fighting. Imagine that! People paying good money for what most sponges give away for free. A hundred dollars for beer and sometimes spirits from the dock workers when merchant boats came
June 23, 2061. In those first few days, when humanity sprinted out of the shadows, there had been a kind of spiritual awakening. Some hunger, buried deep inside the soul, had finally stirred. People were eager to try something new. By all accounts, The Last War had been a grubby little affair.
My Mother, Ladies and Gentlemen, my queen of daytime TV. My everything, oh darling, for all the world to see. She burned the living room, perhaps a little bright. And strangled her children, noose a little tight. I swear she didn’t mean it. And swear, and swear. And swear some more. But
From the depths of Hell itself, a bitter, cold wind invaded the city. Grey Buildings, once standing proud and tall, huddled together in the loneliness of Winter. A lone pedestrian, perhaps the last in the city, hunkered down in the safety of his winter jacket. Who am I kidding? This was Brisbane.
Artemis couldn’t get comfortable. The ivy itched, the night air was too cold, and a friendly beetle wasn’t taking the hint. Something promised to be easy was turning out to be hard. Artemis closed his eyes. Three, two, one, then looked around. Nothing had changed, except now the beetle had brought friends.
Most of the time, the machines hiss and wheeze like my old man smoking his way through yet another pack. Even in my dreams they were are never far away. I remember this dream once of duelling seagulls, one hissing, the other wheezing with pumped-up gusto, as they bowed, hopped ten paces,
Everything I’ve ever said a lie, except those bits which were extremely true. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, my intentions. Not figurative Hell, not small-h hell, that part is a lie for children. Proper Hell, the Hell of the Bible, the Hell where Beats lie in wait for
In the beginning there was Zero, and then there was the word, and the word was, “Let there be One”. And with the word, the twin digital Gods, Alpha and Omega stepped forth from the electronic ocean of circuit boards and copper wire and looked upon the world, like newborns. In the
From the way his black curly hair waved in the soft breeze, overflowing the top of his worn leather jacket; from the way the light reflected from his designer sunglasses, hiding eyes that hinted of exclusive clubs and $30 martinis; from the way his rotting flesh hang limply from his manly bones,
I was a real man, of sorts, with scars tapering down from cheek to chin, and eyes of unpredictable intent. Dressed like an actor from one of those western flicks, maybe a cowboy, I-that-was-him snapped a rusty pocket knife open and closed – a nervous tick for a calm man – as