The Map of Antarctica

Fictions for Unseen Spaces

Category: Uncategorized

Big Money

He rolled his eyes,

seaside fruit machines,

at the thought of big money.

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Recently

I wake. Recently my dreams are more tangible than my days. My thoughts are more physical than my body. Everything has disappeared. I hold out my hand beneath the tap in the bathroom but the water passes through my fingers. Nothing collects. Nothing gathers and everything is left in disarray, without association. I look around my bedroom and see a boat, a kettle, a deer. I struggle but find no connection between the three. The deer looks back at me. Tilts its head as if trying to understand something. I go downstairs and make toast. The sink is full of fish. Mackerel with stripey backs. Their eyes gape hollowly at the ceiling. I spread the butter thickly and bite down. The clock says ten past eight. I pull on my coat and the lion roars on the stairs. Opening the front door I see it is snowing. I step outside, shake off the night. I do not notice the spider’s thread attached to the back of my neck keeping me connected to the house.

Published @ Firefly Magazine

Today I got a piece of Flash Fiction ‘Stranger at a House Fire’ published at Firefly Magazine:

http://fireflymagazine.weebly.com/

The magazine looks great and it’s their first issue so go take a look!

J x

The Search

I look in the shops. I look in the cinema cafe. I look in the art gallery. I look in my local supermarket, behind the front row of tinned soups. I search everywhere. I research, spend time in the local library, in the bookshops of the city. I walk around the park three times convinced that something will come to me. Every single space that the city has, I interrogate. The train stations, the waterfront, the subway. What do I find other than occupied space where people impress their days on the malleable.

Ode to thinking in my local cafe

You were the man who sat and thought for hours, not spending more than it cost for a single cup of black coffee. You were waiting and it was Sunday, just like every weekend. They opened and closed the awnings like they didn’t know what they were doing. They didn’t care how they looked. They were working. You were alone and you sat in the corner where you could see the community of poets. The first time you came here you were new to the city. You read Bukowski and thought that he probably spent years rooted to the spot. All you wanted was a local cafe. Now that you have it you know you are safe. After a few hours in its grasp you have to try your hardest to remember the outside world, full of machineries, full of movement, full of people. There is nothing you need out there.

Paul Auster Interview

Here

Here

is a poem

about how brief

twilight is.

Forgotten Months

Headlines drifted by in a haze of non-identifiable days that jack-knifed into forgotten months.

Allen Ginsberg reads America

The Coffee Machine

I could have made love to that vending machine.


The joy I got from drinking its dark, hot coffee

while standing in the cafeteria,

away from the desk piled high with papers,


and the colleagues gazes loaded down with tasks

for me to perform as though I were one of the robots

from the factory floor.


Did they realise that I was happy

with a mild caffiene induced headrush,

stood on my own for just a few minutes?


It didn’t matter.

Returning to the office

never felt so good.


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