Comments Posted By Jogn

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Mulish nature giving us nought. What an imperative sod. Mrs Cartwright could have throttled the vermin. Her hands were big enough. So the story begins with a drought, that was actuated by a twister. And the drought goes on and nobody knows when it will end.

» Posted By Jogn On 09.17.2013 @ 2:31 am


Rory had to give the sham of solitude away. It had been the great war of his late thirties. An insensible conflict but a weighty one.

He was a home man now. Somebody. A fleshy compound that sometimes could not speak or move or eat without seeing the scales. The development of the city was his lot. The tiny pier on the headland was not.

The warmth coming from the rear vent was for him. The whole of July was apparently his. But the things he said to the driver, they were not his. They were the words of someone else. He’d been taught not to fish for sympathy.

» Posted By Jogn On 05.21.2013 @ 9:13 pm


the weaklings are the more conspicuous ones. their wails are hideously alike. they stamp their feet and swing their arms, they verbalise the disgust caked in the walls of their throats.

» Posted By Jogn On 03.04.2013 @ 2:46 am


A shell. floating on the surface of the grey lake. A gust. Inching it away from the filthy pursuant. Legs burning with ambition. What’s the use of it all? The shell is not an empty metaphor.

» Posted By Jogn On 11.05.2012 @ 12:04 am


The way she sought me out in a crowd. What else could it have been. I was the prey again. She swam over to our table and I could speak none of my thoughts my skin. I was no more use than blubber. Suffice to say, my mother, bless her, had ruined another party. In a not too dissimilar fashion to my older brother’s tenth birthday.

» Posted By Jogn On 07.18.2012 @ 5:19 am


Chapped was his confidence now. After such unseemly, fruitless attempts, (and none were conceivable, that were more mortifying than his last), he would not allow his impulses their speech. She, the sleekest, most streamline babe in the desert, simply would not relent again. He was sure he could see it in her brow, whenever he scuttled amid her. A meerkat like him would never procreate with a meerkat like her. Never

» Posted By Jogn On 04.25.2012 @ 6:39 am

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