The whispering quiet, the darkening hour
Your quickening breath I gently devour
Your flesh is delicious, so tender and light
Your fear is enticing, and such a delight

"It's not true, what they say," he spoke, with the matter-of-fact smugness that she hated, "It is not better to have loved and lost. Studies show..."

The monkey's shrieks fill the sky, they squawk and chitter and crash, with no elegance, and scrap with each other, and root quickly and roughly, and shit over the city. Blotting out the sun, mottled red flashes between dark blurry shapes. The pitch rises and the rich stench swallows the air, hot like a steamy burrow.

They are brawling now, ever more agitated, grinning teeth ripping at pinioned arms. Bodies, limbs are hurled to the ground, while people dash for cover. Dark blood buckets on stone pavings. Ever more excited, the smell drives them to a heightened frenzy.

People caught exposed are thrown to the ground by sweeping winds of the beasts, the less fortunate lifted by anguished gangs and torn to pieces in the tumultuous cloud, outstretched fingers disappearing, desperate screams cut short into violent gurglings. A panic of its own fills those on the ground, and a storm of frantic escape falls upon them, old driven under reddened heels, small acts of heroism deadened by the crush, eyes wide, nostrils flared, panicked beasts.

She asked me for a favour - it was a little thing, really. One of my little things. A finger. My pinkie, to be precise. And because it was a little thing, and because I loved her, and because I wanted her to be happy, and maybe a little bit because I thought it was hot, I agreed.

I didn't miss it much. I didn't ask where she kept it. When I asked her why she wanted it, she said that she wanted a piece of me, and I was satisfied.

Then, she wanted another one. A toe. The outer one. I was a little hesitant, but by that time I was a little scared in our relationship, I didn't want her to leave, and so I said yes. And I didn't miss it much.

But father, I'm writing to you now using just my thumb and index finger to hold my pen. I have no other fingers, no, nor toes. I'm afraid she will ask me for these last two. And if she does, I'm afraid I will give them to her. And I think I will miss these very much indeed.

Your loving son,
Carlos

The house Stella grew in was a very solid house. Strong concrete walls, beige carpets, two devoted and loving parents, lights off at 10pm except on Saturdays when the family usually had guests for tea, two cars, one honest income, three polite children, a healthy appreciation of beer and rugby.

And so it came as somewhat of a shock to the family when Stella, the youngest child, would not stop drawing all over the walls. She refused. Any material that was at hand would be used - crayons, pens, jam, butter, bread, shoe polish, toothpaste, chocolate, cleaning products, saliva and other bodily fluids, anything that might mark the walls was employed enthusiastically to do just that.

It all comes so easy in the dark hours. When you can't see me, darling, is the only time I can be honest. And above all, it is only as dawn breaks, and I must leave you, that I can tell the truth. I like to think of it as a form of esprit d'escalier - the wit one has after all is already said and done.

At dawn, everything is quieter. You lie there, never moving, never making a sound. It is a kind of peace, a kind of intimacy that we share. I run my fingers along your body - you do not shiver, though the air is crisp. It is in this stolen moment that I can tell you of the dreams that hold me so tight, that hurt me so much. I know you understand. And perhaps, for a moment, I love you.

As the morning chorus begins, I kiss your chilling lips once more, and bid you sweet farewell.

The night that Max wore his wolf suit
and made mischief of one sort
and another
his mother called him 'wild thing'
and Max said 'I'll kill you, and desecrate your corpse, removing your fingers and frying them in a pan, and wear your dresses, and burn your photos,
and
pull out your heart and leave it rotting, hung from the ceiling such that you can see it as you walk up
the long road
that brings you from town to our house, our very quiet house, our very secretive house, and the secrets you made me keep will never be kept any longer mother of mine oh what fun I shall have, and all without you any longer because you see, I don't need you, and I never needed you and I owe you nothing and I hate you and I wish oh how I wish that time would stand still for you for you for you for you and most especially for me

It be the early in the morning. I should be the looking for is my left up then big fresh whoosh a job but is my cooking? distracted and realising I'm wasting hoo boy all that time give up and runaway, runaway, runawaaaaay, she's a

Till

It was okay (picture of Mickey saying 'okay!')
then mickey the pilot was just on his way or something or other. Maurice Sendak we love you - you captured perfectly the wahahaha ma shugggathurathah etc. etc.

The secret to getting more self-discipline is ... have more self-discipline!

Jaysus Christo, that's the most useless advice in the world!

Well, first day after my contract finished. I'm excited to have some time to myself, but kind of worried I won't be able to find anything to keep the bank and IRD off my back. Yeesh. Wish that I were a little less impulsive sometimes!

One other thing I wish - that I didn't procrastinate so damn much! Yup. If wishes were horses, we'd have an equine population problem.