POEM: The Moment at Which I Declare Myself ‘Cosmically Neutral’

At around 6:40 I reach a sort of peace:
It is true that somewhere – several somewheres – there is a war,
And that deaths march by along with the swiftest hand,
And as they wipe the face, they wipe the memories.
But still each calculated and precise movement,
Also heralds a something new – lover, brother, sister, mother,
A new atom, a new land,
Or just a molecule docking with receptor,
And it is impossible for me to say which outweighs the other,
And I do not have to live in the dark.

(Accidentally went semi-serious: normal service to resume soon)

'A Wolfman Living Without Water' or Needlessly Self-Indulgent Meta-Fiction

'A Wolfman Living Without Water', Red read, then read on.

'He gnashes his parched muzzle, with his tongue, like sandpaper, languishing stiff inside. Were you to run a hand across his back his fur would be bristly and dry – easily removed from his flesh by a mere brush. His cabin is covered by the product of his moulting as he shuffles from one side to another, waiting for something.

He's unsure why he began this experiment in the first place, but senses that it is coming to its inevitable conclusion. He imagines a wind across the scorched earth outside. As it picks up, fiercely gusting, it takes, one by one, the panels of his cabin and scatters them like a vapour trail across the desert. When this wind comes and strips his cabin bare, it will reveal his bare and powdered bones lying in the centre.

Perhaps, upon discovering his bones they will consider his actions a metaphor. He wheezes. Of course they aren't. They are the product of the purest pain one can feel. Simultaneously well defined and inexact. He feels as though he could cut himself open and remove the lump if it did not spread across his entire form. How do you amputate yourself? The Wolfman had found a way. He felt the last drops of life drying up and slowly curled upon the ground to await the close.'

'She's dumped you again, then?' Asked Red.

Francis nodded almost imperceptibly.

'Why are you a wolf-man in this one?' Asks Red eventually, sighing.

A Flurry of School-Based Flash Fiction

Marking

Mr Barnes saw the title of Matthew Hall's essay: 'Black History Month'. Recalling the disquieting racial bent present in Matthew's previous work he decided enough was enough and shot himself in the store cupboard.

Penne Passion

Mr Wilkes found it difficult to justify his fondness for Angela as he helped her glue pasta to some brightly coloured card. Later he shot himself in the store cupboard.

The Unbearable Tragedy of a Man Reduced to a Grade

Ofsted said Mark Geddes was 'shit' and gave him 2/10. Clutching the report in his quivering hand he shot himself in the store cupboard.

Trajectory

One break time, whilst he was supervising, John Gwlx took, simultaneously, a frisbee to the back of the head and some sort of fluorescent foam shape in the eye. Months later, unable to cope with his blindness and the permanent dull ache in his neck, John shot himself in the store cupboard.

'Fetch me the Geography folders...'

Timothy found an upsetting number of bodies in the store cupboard. His eyes chanced upon the pile of discarded pistols. Distraught, he shot himself.

Ace of Spades (Black as) - by...

Eleanor, a toff, wrote a trite, unnecessary and blithely offensive novel about love overcoming racism in 40's Alabama. She congratulated herself and returned to the Bridge table, glowing with a self-satisfaction which would distract her from the next couple of hands.

Eddie Stobart kills a Carjacker and Two Babies Ten Miles out of Birmingham (Part 1)

I am twisting my body in an unpleasant manner so as to look at the back seat of the car, having just noticed in the rear view mirror that a couple of babies are strapped snugly behind me. I holster my weapon, apparently out of fear of offending them. But given that I have been driving for ten straight miles, pistol in full view, without so much as a peep out of them this action seems a little unnecessary.

As I regard them, they are doing the same to me, but with doubled intensity. Their massive googly eyes lapsing in and out of focus. This focussing process seems to alternate between them – the one on the right spends thirty seconds with his ridiculous goggles boring deep into me, then seems to drift into consideration of something thirty metres behind my head, as he does this, his sister refocuses and is, as her brother was, now judging me and every action I have ever taken in my life. Then repeat.

The brother lets out a little gurgle as if to warn me that in the time I have spent contemplating my unintended travelling companions, I have veered a little into oncoming traffic and am about to have my life, and by accidental association theirs, cut short - especially short in their case - by an articulated lorry.

Which I am.