Knight
one der fool knight re: LAX’d om words fine alley
Crimson Salamander
Short stories, Some with sketches. No great themes, plans, attempts to look slick, polished or to persuade....
Latest posts
Moves
Typing at my computer I glance down at the mouse I’m holding. I should get a better one. Something ergonomic, more precise. I think back to the ones I use to have. One stands out. A large expensive trackball, smooth as silk, precise. So what happened to it? Moving house - it got mixed up in a box marked ‘give away’. So many moves, so many restarts. I count them. I shake my head in disbelief. That…
The Pub and the Tall Man - Excerpt from a Project
The note was taped to the fridge when he went for another beer. Directions to a pub he hadn’t heard of, and a small hand-drawn map. He had been in the cottage three days. The couple were in Hungary for three months. He had answered the ad. Retired, single, familiar with Beara, references in order. They had liked him on the phone. He hadn’t met them. The road narrowed past Eyeries and kept…
Attention
I realize I’ve just read a complete page of the novel I’m supposedly reading - twice - and I don’t remember any of the content. So I read it once again and the same thing happens. This is also happening when I try and relax by watching a series on television. Five episodes in, hours of watching, and I suddenly remember I’d seen it all before. Is everything on automatic repeat now? Endlessly…
Forgetfullness
I noticed the clothes in the washing machine hadn’t been removed, not by me but by my wife. She must have forgotten. It’s not like her to forget. It reminds me of my own forgetfulness. I notice I want to improve my memory. Read a book, take a course. It isn’t the first time I’ve felt this want. Why? Is it I want to feel clever. No. To be honest, I want to avoid being the doddery old man. What can…
The Circus Clowns
When I was eight, my father took my little brother and me to the circus. I can still feel the sticky sweetness in the air and the restless thrill of waiting for the start, for the lights to drop— like anything could happen under that big tent, like the world had temporarily agreed to be strange and exciting. It was wonderful, at first. Then the clowns came on. I remember the way my father’s…
From when I was sixteen
“I’m your father,” he said, voice flat as a slammed door. “You’ll do as I say—or I’ll punish you.” The words landed the way they always did: not as guidance, not as love, but as a threat dressed up as authority. My chest tightened. My hands went cold. Somewhere deep inside me, something old and bruised rose up—not fear this time, but fury. Clarity. The sudden, clean understanding that I was done…
Dreams
Throwing off the blankets, I sit at the edge of the bed. I dreamt that I am dreaming. Again. An infinite showreel of scrambled thoughts and memories. Dreamt up by a crazed director who won’t wake up.
Sun is so hot
A band from Berlin, a pub in the village, and a summer evening that was still bright at 10 p.m. I was on my third pint of Murphy’s stout when the singer silenced the room. She stepped onto one of the small tables — red plastic top, sticky with spilled beer — and without missing the beat of her one-line refrain, sang: “Sun is so hot, we slept.” In black stiletto shoes, she lurched from table to…
The Open Door
Like a mouse, I slipped into the living room, quiet as breath, hoping—as always—not to be seen. “Close the door, you bastard. You’re letting the heat out.” My father jabbed a finger toward the coal fire in the grate, its embers smoldering. A brown leather shoe flashed past my head and struck the door with a hard, echoing thud. I retreated at once, pulled the door shut with care, and climbed the…