It was a hollow victory, Hugo thought as he tucked into his last meal. Now that the initial excitement of escaping the care home and boarding a plane to Switzerland had worn off, the stark finality of death began to sink in.
After all his dear friend Ron had done to help him – booking the Dignitas appointment, fetching his passport, lying to the staff and Hugo’s family, and driving him to the airport – he felt bad even thinking like this.
Continue readingWhat is retribution,
If not a never-ending cycle of revenge?
They say it is a penalty inflicted out of vengeance for a wrong act,
But they also say two wrongs don’t make a right.
So, can revenge ever reach completion,
Or will the whole world turn blind?
–
Who deserves retribution,
If not everyone for every wrong they’ve ever done?
Is it reserved for the homophobes, the racists, the liars, the cheats?
Or does it extend to the lazy, the manipulative, the privileged, and the foolish?
Does it even target the lucky?
–
Who determines retribution,
If it no longer exists solely with lawmakers?
If we now encourage others to design and enact their own form of retaliation,
And as a public judge whether it was fair,
Is it still retribution if we then punish the offender we helped create?
–
What is retribution,
If not cruelty extended,
Stretched out and continued long after the original offence?
And do you really believe petty revenge could hurt that type of crook?
No, the cruellest gift the Good bestow upon the Evil is time.
Time is the enemy of unhappy people.
‘Are you in some sort of trouble love?’ asked the taxi driver.
Nishi squirmed in the hot vinyl hugging her toddler closer, her free hand tightening on the chubby leg of her five-month old.
‘Please… if anyone asks… you never made this journey’ she pleaded, hiding her black eye.
Nishi glanced back at what had been her home, nestled in the verdant hills, diminishing out of view.
The picturesque village with the 16th century church, weekly fete and mother’s group epitomised a rural idyll. Yet the dream was never Nishi’s, and the othering was relentless. The playgroup mothers asking her where she learnt English. Same place you did, from my parents, when I was a baby she thought but never retorted. The barely hidden speculation on what colour her unborn Indian-English child would be. The titters about their house ‘smelling funny’. She had tried so hard to fit in. Eventually exhausted by Murray’s hostility, she had given up.
Continue readingTomorrow never comes around
It is a day that can’t be found
The mystery of what lies ahead
Thoughts running through a busy head
In bed wondering what’s to come
Ideas pounding like a drum
Dreams and aspirations dwell
Then midnight rings its final bell
Tomorrow holds an ambitious fate
Tomorrow’s always running late
Another day has now arrived
But tomorrow has not survived
Future desires have gone away
Tomorrow’s just another day By Sarah Rengozzi
Dear Harriet.
I guess this is it then, the end of the line.
You know why I hired you? Because convincing a halfway decent person to go out with me is an impossibility.
Recall Sam Jackson yelling and waving a gun in some poor bastard’s face. All the poor bastard can do is say “what” over and over again because he’s too terrified to even think.
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‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but there isn’t any way out of this contract.’
Meg crumpled onto the settee and wept.
‘Thanks for taking a look, Andy, I owe you one,’ said Doug.
‘What we going to do Doug, we’ve no more money to pay them.’
‘Come on love, whenever have I let you down, something will turn up.’
‘But even if we default on the payment, that stupid clause states we are still liable. I couldn’t bear it if they take our lovely home.’
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Unable to move, unable to die.
He couldn’t see, hear, feel, smell or taste.
This was isolation in its purest form. Loneliness inescapable. No rescue, no relief, no companionship, no comfort, and no end.
How long had he been there? A million years, merely a week? Another agony was that in his sightless, soundless state, he could not even measure time.
He would never again know fresh air, a good meal or the touch of a warm hand.
*
“Make me immortal,” he yelled at the Djinn, and it granted his wish.
He gleefully drank down every poison, feeling no ill effects. He had his armed guards charge at him, and even the sharpest blade never pierced his skin.
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You know there’s something seriously wrong when the police arrive at your door past midnight. I guessed what it was at once. He had finally done it.
I’d moved out of the family home when I was seventeen, and haven’t put a foot inside it since. After years of wanting my father’s attention, I finally had it once I reached puberty. It was the wrong sort of course, “our little secret” he used to call it.
Poor Mum, the things she had to put up with over the years. She didn’t deserve any of it. She’d never told anybody of the mental and physical abuse she had been subjected to from ‘HIM.’ Even now I can’t call him ‘Dad’, he’s such a despicable human being. Why she stood by him all these years I will never understand.
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My name is Stephen Sacks and I’m a complete faggot.
Oh, I know, I know, bluntness is discouraged these days and words like that reek of self-loathing but I’m not pussy footing around, tonight I aim for honesty.
I’ll tell you about a revelation I had last week which stoked the embers and relit my passion. I was at an outdoor pool party, held by my sister’s in-laws. A celebration over the fact they had stuck it out for fifty years.
So, there I was, meekly maundering by the barbecue when I became aware of somebody’s nephew, Johnny whatever, wafting by the swimming pool. And as that handsome youth, wearing nothing but tight trunks, beer in hand, talked to another Adonis, dear reader I felt the desire.
Continue reading“My word professor, this has to stop. I agreed to let you use the engineering students to build that enormous building that is indestructible .But I cannot have you phoning Plantasia asking for their animals to be bought here .Your disciples have been creating panic by going around St.Thomas telling everyone a tsunami is coming .My phone has been red hot, there’s talk of the police becoming involved. They will be taking you away in a strait jacket if you’re not careful, think of the reputation of the university, man.”
Continue readingStrange things started happening in our estate. People started waking up to find envelopes stuffed with money on their doormats with a message ‘ENJOY’.
Ours wasn’t a posh estate but a bog standard council estate, lots people elderly or unemployed families living on the breadline. So any money was a godsend to most of them.
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