Tag Archives: Short fiction

Cover songs and other oddities

“Originality? It’s over-rated at best and at worst deeply limited. It’s also mis-understood. So you think that fan fiction is derivative? That the covers band that entertained the pub last night weren’t credible creative artists? That any artist working in a genre they didn’t create is simply pastiche? Seriously? I guess nothing’s original, right? There’s no point trying to come up with anything because all of the good ideas have already been explored? You know what? Fuck you! Fuck your petty bourgeois reactionary rationalism! Fuck everything you’ve ever thought! How fucking dare you tell anyone else what is valid as art? What the fuck do you think makes you judge, jury and fucking executioner over what is and isn’t original or acceptable different or worthy? I’m done with fucking arseholes pontificating on subjects about which they know precisely half of fuck all!” 

I took a swig from the dark, black, bitter, burnt coffee, swallowing the lukewarm dregs with a grimace,

“Enough already! Fucking makes me sick, bunch of fucking deeply unpleasant pricks!”

I blushed as I realised that the background volume of chatter in the coffee shop had fallen away as my rant had increased in intensity and ferocity, my vitriol overtaking any self-esteem issues just as the power and passion that inspired writers, singers, artists to revisit and recreate the glorious work of their idols and heroes, their muses overwhelms their natural instinct to try to create something unique, the dark desires awoken by a chance discovery, the need to do it again only better, harder, faster, deeper, softer whatever. I slump in my seat, drained as the adrenalin flooding my system abates. She smiles, acknowledging that she has once again coped with my outburst, coped with the strange passions and behaviours of her friend, coped with being my friend….


Girl on a train….

Sunglasses on her head holding back the waves of dark, soft hair threatening to fall over the soft curves of her cheek, her eyes, half lidded, brown, accented by the bronze eyeshadow glance out of the window before scanning the rest of the carriage, meeting mine briefly. A flicker of a smile on her full lips as our eyes meet. She watches me writing for a moment, unaware that she is the subject, that she has become my muse. She sips from a bottle of flavoured water, hep lip closing around the neck of the bottle, her throat extended as she raises her chin, the peristaltic movement of each swallow strangely erotic. Her necklace, long beads strung on a fine wire sits against her smooth skin emphasising the slender garcefullness of her figure. The straps of her dark pink top define the paleness of her skin. Her colouring is almost Irish, dark hair, pale skin, slender, graceful figure. The neckline of the top, curved, falling below her trachea conceals the swell of her breasts, high, firm, the hint of an erect nipple pushing at the soft cotton fabric, no bra under her top. her arms, bare below the straps of the top and unblemished, unscarred, the muscles under the skin well toned giving a sinuous line to her upper arm.

She smiles again, glancing over towards me as she talk to her companion, a friend, blond, in jeans and a t-shirt, an open, smiling face but nothing compared to my muse. The dark hair and eyes draw me in deeper and more completely as I can’t help but look across at her as I write, the story becoming reality as I focus more closely on her, building words around her intense beauty, knowing that my attention will not, can not go un-noticed. That this woman will know that I am fixated on her.

Will it make her uncomfortable? Will she revel in the attention? Would it make a difference to know that my interest was artistic inspiration rather than any romantic longing? Does it make a difference? Is an artist and less of a user of his subject than a lecherous voyeur? I look at her for my pleasure, my joy in being able to capture her image on the page, words attempting to do justice to her perfection, yet am I any less questionable in my ethics than the Victorian bug collectors with their killing jars and pins, trapping beauty on board as I trap it on the page. I may not pin this beauties heart to the page in a physical sense but my attention on her, noticed now will surely pin her heart with either fear or longing. Do I have any right to use a stranger in this way? Yet I can not stop myself. I look across at her again, catching her eye, she smiles, I write, she leans forward across the table between us….

….”What are you writing? You look so intense….”