A story about Mina

Painting by Arna Baartz @ http://www.artofkundalini.com

Mina placed the last piece of cutlery on the table. It was part of an antique silverware set her grandmother left to her when she passed. Mina knew her grandmother would be delighted to see her using the set for a dinner party.

She looked at the clock, it was nearly seven and her guests weren’t here yet, her husband hadn’t returned home either and he finished work at five. This wasn’t the first time he had done this and he never had a real excuse for why not.

Mina didn’t mind, she didn’t love him enough to mind, she wasn’t sure if she ever loved him at all. She supposed she only really loved him once because he was interesting and unusual and would do things which surprised her, once he woke before dawn to climb a hill and take a photo of the sunrise for her so she wouldn’t have to wake up early to see it.

It was a beautiful photo but it was nothing now. Mina thought he was out there in the city with all the beautiful girls in the world, this would suit her just fine because then at least he would be interesting again. She imagined him, with his tailored suit and beautiful eyes buying a drink for a younger prettier and fun version of her.

She was surprised at how jealous she was; doesn’t he know that he can take me out and buy me a drink? If he would just tell me something interesting I would be interested. Since when did it become a wife’s duty to act interested in every boring thing her partner says?

Mina returned to the living room and picked up the phone to call her husband but there was no answer and she didn’t leave a message.

She collected his place from the table, Mina refused to be embarrassed by her husband again and would not satisfy her guests (who are ruthless gossips) with an unsatisfactory answer. Mina would lie and say he was out of town because if she could help it, he will be by the end of the night.


Chonza- Chapter 1: Crisis

A dull morning, the sun, like always, was covered by smog and acid rain clouds, “you wouldn’t know it was there if you were born yesterday” Jacobs’ would always say.
You wouldn’t know anything if you were born yesterday, Michael thought, At least that was his general impression from all the newborns he has ever met, though he has only met one.
It was Michaels’ impression that Jacobs isn’t very smart.
The fertility of humans (and all animals for that matter) is so bleak that the population of all living things is maybe only 10 percent of what it once was. The Earth is quieter now than almost any other time in its history, Michael is depressed, he thinks this is the reason.
His doctors think it’s a lack of Vitamin B and they added it to his daily Vitamin injection.
Michael remembers food and tries to think of it whilst enduring his morning shots, he could only conjure up a vague memory of his fathers’ thirtieth birthday, everyone eating some succulent pork from the spit, the smell. That’s what he could remember, the smell.
Food is expensive now, still available, but much more expensive. Most people live off shots of essential vitamins and minerals and a cheap stomach filler. This is bleak and Michael thinks this could be another reason for his depression.
On his way to work, Michael passes ancient fast food outlets, reduced to selling imitation chips and flavoured filler. People like the familiarity of take-out. Restaurants aren’t accessible to regular people anymore.
It’s not really fast food since a vending machine injection takes seconds, it’s just an outdated term that people still use to feel like everything is normal.
At work, Michael and Jacobs’ are the yes men for an eccentric Philanthropist named Sam who has pledged to solve the problems of the world. So far, he’s come up with the vitamin shots… Michael despises Sam for this and wishes he could’ve come up with something better.
Michael wants to drown himself in beer, he had gotten a taste for it in college but then the malt and barley fields died. The liquor that is available has become so tainted with artificial additives that he can’t drink a shot without getting an almost immediate headache.
Jacobs drinks the stuff like a fish, he also looks a little like a fish, with those bug eyes that seem to stick on the side of his face, not so much that he doesn’t look normal, but just slightly. He’s got a short pointy nose and a long face. Michael can’t stand him. He hasn’t done anything wrong, but his demeanour is off-putting and he occasionally makes obscene jokes that would have only been at home in the 20th century.
Jacobs is waiting out the front of work, which is really just a warehouse with a bunch of smarties and a couple of go-getters (Michael and Jacobs) inside.
Jacobs says immediately “we got our work cut out for us buddy”
“What do you mean?” Michael replied
“Apparently Fast Foods not making any profits and people are dodging their shots. It seems they would rather starve” Jacobs was glad he has the upper hand “don’t you read the news?”.
“I skimmed through it” depressed about this also, Michael didn’t want to go into why he doesn’t keep up with current affairs even though it’s part of his job.
“Well they’re rioting, people want real food, apparently.” Jacobs starts walking into the warehouse.
“Not much we can do about it” Michael replies opening the door to see Sam waiting on the other side.
“That’s no attitude to have their little buddy, you two are late.” Sam said condescendingly “I’m not paying you for destitution, I’m paying you for Institution! I want an idea from both of you by lunchtime”
“nice one” Jacobs leered at Michael.

Walking with Sprites


Art by Arna Baartz @ http://www.artofkundalini.com

“Alright, let’s go,” the man said to his little pup, and they walked out of the yard and onto the sidewalk.
It was getting dark, but the man thought he’d be back in time and you don’t need sunlight to walk your dog.
He was proud of how the dog was walking beside him and following his commands, he had never done anything well in his life, but he can train a dog.
He decided to take the back route home, jumped over a fence (the dog climbed under) and walked along the dusty fire track behind all the houses.
It was dark now and he couldn’t see a thing, each backyard was long and covered with trees and he wasn’t sure which house was his.
When he had finally given up hope, he saw a tall thin statuesque being in one of the yards. He thought he recognized it from somewhere, he approached it.
As he was moving towards it, the being began to sway and the very essence of it would flicker.
He called out, “hello?” and the being flickered at that and returned the greeting in a soft childlike voice and vanished.
It immediately appeared directly in front of him.
His dog ran away.
It was a beautiful woman; her features were sharp, and she was taller than anyone he had ever met.
She kissed him and told him to come back tomorrow.
He wouldn’t, he had a wife and he loved her more than fantasy.

Easy for you to say.

“I got some great ideas” said the man to the mirror
The mirror didn’t speak back.
The mirror didn’t peep
The mirror didn’t gratify the words an inch
“You are me, can’t you support us” said the man to the mirror.
The mirror didn’t twitch
It didn’t give the man the time of day.
“If you are just going to ignore me, what’s the point of using you?”
Said the man to the mirror.
The mirror shivered and shouted.
“That’s just it, you use me!” emotionally distraught the mirror dug its heels in, “You come in here day after day, to groom and feel yourself up in front of me”.
The man was shocked.
He couldn’t say a word.
The mirror continued “Where’s my love, for me? I don’t think I’ve ever been cleaned or washed or kissed”
“It’s easier looking at yourself through grime and dust and dirt” said the man.
“Easy for you to say” said the mirror “that’s my life, reflecting onto grime, dust and dirt”
“I don’t want to see me clean” said the man
“would you like that?” the mirror was off on a tangent “always looking through muddy glasses?”
“I suppose not” said the man.
Convinced, he grabbed the Windex and sprayed and wiped with love and said: “So do you want to hear my great ideas now?”
The mirror responded positively.
But the man, was lost for words.
He saw himself truly and lost all his ideas to wonder…

joshua cowley Elysium reflection
Artist: Joshua Cowley https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10214129274966602&set=a.10214129273526566.1073741829.1254964548&type=3&theater


Ben Needs Sleep

Artist- Joshua Ian Cowley
Artist- Joshua Ian Cowley https://www.facebook.com/acacia.k/photos_all

“A long time ago, you could see stars from anywhere on earth” Ben woke to a documentary blaring unreasonably loud out of his old TV. The speakers had busted a while ago and right now and like always, were crackling and popping under the strain of another ridiculous documentary about ancient times. The government continuously plays these ridiculous documentaries every morning as if they want to remind us what we missed out on by being born too late.

He is not sure why he turned his TV up so loud, he was a drinker and he was scared of sleep.

After the war everything fell to shit and the government turned into a shell, barely holding onto its last vestiges of power. Apparently he’s lucky that his house is fortified from the gangs and mutants of the night, but he isn’t so sure.

He still gets the occasional night terror from his days in service, perhaps they will never stop, perhaps that is the real reason he doesn’t want to go to sleep.

He doesn’t need rest anyway, his job at the mechanics isn’t really a job anymore. The new flyers don’t need mechanics, they just need computers. He can connect an analysis wiring loom in his sleep so he might as well do it, at least there are guards at work.

He climbs up off his couch with his head ringing and bumps the remainder of his speed, government issued, then slips into his mechanics overalls.

He limps outside and slides into his old Mercedes. Grizzled and worn, he looks in the mirror and grimaces, I am absolutely terrifying. He is sure the crew laughs at his old Merc but they would never laugh about it to his face.

Driving to work he wonders what it would be like to drive a flyer, they have those stupid wings, I’m sure they’re useless … I like to work on my own car, my own way, not this new age crap… what’s with the colour anyway? Beige? they got to be kidding themselves. Arriving at the garage he gets out, looks up and thinks, I don’t need to go that fast, the new flyers were zipping through the air like big beige flies and Ben needed to get inside.

He begins to open the door but it doesn’t budge, he is the first one there. Ben grabs the crowbar out of his boot and walks around the back.

The owner won’t give him a key. Ben knows why, vets are unstable and he has always been slightly unhinged.

Ben had a job at 7:30 which is in ten minutes and if the place wasn’t open by then he could lose his only commission this week. He finds the loose window and forces the bar into the gap, pries it up, he hears a click and climbs in, opens the connecting door, then rushes towards the roller door and lifts it up.

A flyer indicates left-down and drops into the garage.

Past Life

As Mikey walks through his past life he stumbles across the old two-story dive bar he used to work at. 20 dollars an hour to deep fry prawns in the back and drink cocktails with customers.
What a job.

He begins to walk upstairs and accidentally catches the eye of a beautiful woman sitting with four self-important fellows; he winks and finishes his graceful climb up the carpeted stairs.

Feeling glares penetrate the back of his neck, “believe it Mikey, they noticed that.”

Mikey begins walking towards the toilet, no one he knows works here anymore and he is worried. Other than the staff nothing has changed, but he is still worried. The vibes pretty important and Mikey supposes the vibe has changed.

Because those round tables with those plush benches encasing them so elegantly that it makes you wonder are still there, and those portraits of stern faced rock gods dressed in old ladies’ frocks looking down at the customers are still there, and the customers, still enjoying the fried prawns and 10-dollar cocktails with a small serving of drag Bowie watching them with his piercing alternative eyes are still there.

But the Bartender wasn’t smiling and this whole place was off, stinking further of rotten dreams and acrid break ups.

Mikey finally walks into the surprisingly clean bathroom (It was never clean when he worked there). The bathroom had a urinal on the left and a cubicle on the right with the wash basin beside the door.

Approaching the urinal, he unzips his jeans and hears “Where’s that cool guy?”

The door flings open and one of those guys from the table with the girl is there with a cold glint in his eyes and the old meat knife from the kitchen.

Mikey, unsure, with his extra appendage still out, jumps into the cubicle and tries to lock it.

The lock won’t budge.

This was distressing to Mikey, even though he knew that if this guy was determined, a lock was pretty much useless.

Wanting to speak but clearly afraid he waits for his own inner-moment of shock to abate, but it doesn’t.

This man was hacking at the cubicle door with his kitchen machete and thankfully, for just one second it got caught, the blade was stuck.

Mikey took the initiative and slams into the door, knocking the knife out of the man’s hand and shoving him against the wall, Mikey takes a swing but the man dodges and runs out of the bathroom and back downstairs.

Mikey, with that stupid adrenaline that he sometimes gets after a fight decides to follow him out the building.

He begins running down the street, passing a two-dollar shop and a tough sort of mother with a young child in a pram.

Sick of being chased by some young punk who made a ‘pass at his girl’ the man pulls out a handgun and begins emptying his gun. In his exhaustion he missed everybody.

The mother, outraged, tackles the man into the busy street where they are both hit by an oncoming car.

Mikey, distraught and confused walked into the two-dollar shop and asked to use their phone to call the police.

That was Mikey’s past life.

Not Worth Nothing

“I’m enjoying myself,” said the young man in his mind. Flying to the limits of his own atmosphere he reaches for the sky in his imagination. The party is around him and he is so in conversation with a group of people who actually get him.

People usually get him to some degree, but these people actually get him; to the point of having a wild conversation with so much depth that you’d be struggling to swim out of.
“I’m enjoying myself!”

He only said that because he was surprised, he was surprised and he knows that it usually isn’t so.

He can go to a party but what’s there really for him?

A couple of beers or a lot of beers, maybe a puff or two and then what? A couple of Deep and meaningful’s that have all been said or thought of before, great.

But he’s not dwelling on that, he can say what he needs to say here and he lets it out.

“I’m not sure about that, but what do you think about this?” And so on, to the point that even his brilliant conversation has lost meaning and he has whirlwinded out into an uneven playing field which will never give him the rule book or let him know even one rule.

“Play to find out” or “we’ll just play, you’ll catch on”

… fun.

So, he spirals to the same old conversations that show he has no real rapport with any of his friends and begins partying harder than usual, people are surprised as well now. You start to see their admiration, it’s showing in their eyes and growing in their speech.

The party looks like one of those American house parties that you see on bogus sit coms in their bogus houses with their bogus red cups. He’s not having a dig but it all looks fake.

He’s lost control now and is outside on the porch giving a hello to the garden with the contents of his stomach.


He stumbles back in and finds himself in a bed, not keeping it together at all.

A girl he pronounced his love to earlier came in to check if he was alright or maybe for a cuddle but he has no conscious.

That was the end of a night that was probably not worth nothing in the end.


Every Second Counts

Every second counts
Mike wakes up and doesn’t give himself a second.
Brews a coffee and has a shower.
He walks around the house drying himself off and picking his clothes for the day.
He pushes the plunger down whilst taking only that moment to smell the coffee.
Before tainting it with cold water and downing it like a glass of water after a long day in the hot sun.
Every second counts.

And you all know that he’s not going to properly say goodbye to his house.
Empty cups except for their coffee stains, water on the floor and an overflowing bin.
A last minute sort of a guy.
Deadlines are his best friends because he spends most of his time thinking about them.
Every second counts.

Another moment where he can’t be bothered to take an extra second is when he reverses out of the driveway.
Not bothering with the three point turn ritual.
He likes the challenge anyway, or so he says.
He plays comedy on the way to work because he can’t be bothered to listen to it at home.
Surfing the web is the most important thing any member of society can do.
Hang ten bro.
Every second counts.

Thinking about a joke he enters work with a smile, he thinks people are happy to see him.
He doesn’t dare think otherwise because that’s a slippery slope and he’s probably been there.
He’s not entirely aware because he’s not entirely aware of his own thoughts and his own feelings.
They are just there and they will spring up out of that glazE mindset with sludge soaked hands.
Before he even had his cup of tea.
Every second counts.

He licked his girlfriends nipple this morning in some sort of game.
That was fun.
It was a fun lick.
Something about it made him realise how much he really did love her.
Every second counts.

Deftly appreciating life as even the sour, dull moments will harbour importance if he lets them anchor.

The wondering man and the fighter

There once was a wondering soldier who would fight any battle for gold.
He would scour the lands looking for any fight that could earn him even the smallest gold piece.
He fought with a 9 inch dagger forged with ice cold steel and a hilt made out of heaven-oak said to have fallen out of the sky on the summer zenith.
He was good at his job and he knew it.
A solitary man who knew his own way.
He carved his path through history not knowing his age or his destiny.
Never thinking about what came next because he never knew nor cared.
Through the ages he got better and wiser without realising and without putting any practice into his thought.
Just by experiencing he became a scholar so learned that others would come to him with questions for him to reply always with something like this “As a rock experiences it’s defeat, it becomes smaller. But as it rolls down a hill it brings much force, When it travels a kilometer it meets many friends and when it becomes composed so will everything else.”
One day a young woman was searching for a wooden staff to practice a new fighting style that a foreigner had been teaching her neighbours.
She was always listening in and she loved it all but never got the chance to fight because she didnt have the tool!
So wondering along the great forest with her little dog she stumbled upon the old wise man walking towards the town carring his dagger ready for a new job.
Awed at such a unique weapon she asked “where did you get that dagger!?”surprised at such an uncouth question the wise man simply said “a friend”
“Oh” replied the woman “can i meet your friend?”
“He’s far away” said the wise man
“I’d still like to meet him”
“Well you have met me”
“So? You’re just an old man with a dagger”
“Is that all you see?” Said the man
“Its not what I want to see” said the woman “I’m looking for a great wooden branch to create a staff”
“What’s wrong with that one?” Said the man pointing at the closest sturdiest branch”
It was about 5 foot long and a little bit bent.
The girl; annoyed said “does that look like a great branch to you?”
“No but its not the weapon the fighter holds its how the fighter holds it.”
“You are looking for trouble old man” replied the fighter.
“Precisely so” said the man “but not your kind of trouble.
If you find a better branch let me know. But I think that would do the trick”
The girl frustrated at the old mans arrogance climbed up the tree and cut the branch down, as it fell she shouted “You better run, I’m going to beat you with your favourite stick.”
Amused the man scoffed “I have not run from anything in my life, let alone a novice with a stick”
The fighter screamed and jumped out of the tree, grabbing the stick as she rolled out of the fall.
Swinging it as soon as she gained her stance.
The wanderer simply parried with his tiny dagger.
And she swung and he parried over and over again. Till eventually, the fighter covered with nicks, bleeding all over and with arms as heavy as lead conceded.
The wanderer amused accepted her defeat but on his terms.
“One gold piece” he said.
“I have none but these clothes and my dog.” Said the fighter.
“That’s not true” replied the wanderer “you have that beautiful staff”
It seemed the brilliant properties of the wandering mans dagger had shaped the fighters branch into a smooth almost translucent staff that seemed to resonate fire.
” I want you to go into the nearest village with me and earn that gold piece”
The fighter agreed leaving any doubt behind of the old mans clarity.
The end

I think I doubt I am

Feeling weak not free on this imaginary friday, thinking I need to recover myself and this alcohol doesn’t want to help, isn’t helping and isn’t gonna help, no way. Thinking about that insane Inane Inhumane ambition some people have to  somehow be on top

Inhumane;thinking back I must have taken you for a ride. I hope you’re still not spun out on me because I can drive even me insane; I haven’t even seen or heard from my friends in days which feel like months. Some soft sort of pain vibrating through my body. Too much bad food? Too much alcohol? Maybe I’m just paranoid from all those blazed days sitting in the forest or on the broken trampoline or even that water tower just above the school. And to top everything off I got a nasty bruise on my face ouch and my self confidence is at an all time low, ouch.

One friend calls me like we had plans but I don’t know maybe he’s dragging me down. Because I feel like a goddamn drag. Dead bodies of pure animals golden retrievers and the like being dragged, either dead or drugged poor things. They can have some pity.

Inane; maybe if I had some sort of talent other then writing like some desperate wannabe or playing some simple tune.

I AM, I’m not special or brilliant I’m just as depraved and ugly as anything how depressing.

If there is a beauty in me I’m not ready to accept it. All I know is I just am. And maybe I’m beautiful and maybe it’s what I make and what I put my effort in which defines me.

One things for sure, no more TV.

some people have to somehow be on top