Archive for January, 2009

Early in the Morning

Posted in Fictions on January 28, 2009 by Tom Fletcher

You know what I saw this morning? I left my house at six this morning and just saw it. Right there. Somebody’s spray-painted a picture of Richard Ashcroft onto a wheelie-bin. Richard fucking Ashcroft. I can’t tell you how unhappy it makes me. It makes me the unhappiest I have ever been in my entire life.


Something Awful

Posted in Non-Fictions on January 28, 2009 by Tom Fletcher

There is something peculiarly nasty about these photos. (You can follow that link, or see them by clicking on ‘The House Animal’ on the right hand side. Near the bottom.) 

They are pictures of a toy taken over the Christmas period. I wasn’t angry or drunk when taking them.

Just excited.

A Friend From A Long Time Ago

Posted in Dreams on January 21, 2009 by Tom Fletcher

There was a girl at primary school who I haven’t spoken to properly since 1995, probably. I used to see her now and again, either in some corridor at secondary school or, later, across some crowded pub in the village. Maybe once or twice between 1995 and 2005 we said hello to each other. She would seem sad.

I haven’t seen her or thought about her in years.

But last night I dreamt that I met her out on some mountain path. She was healthy and happy and laughing, walking across the fells in bad weather, at night.


Posted in Non-Fictions on January 21, 2009 by Tom Fletcher

This morning I woke up with the following words running around inside my head:

‘I am not a grain of rice. I am not a grain of rice. I am not a grain of rice.’

They were making perfect sense to me until I opened the bathroom door and started to question myself.

I really didn’t want to go to work today.

The Golden-Eyed Man

Posted in Dreams on January 19, 2009 by Tom Fletcher

I had a dream that a tall, broken-limbed man with lots of pointed teeth and large golden eyes was holding me captive, strapped down, injecting me with anaesthetic. He would veer from manic pleasantry to abject fury, laughing and screaming. I didn’t know what he wanted me for but it was as if he was trying to turn me into some sort of servant – he had lots of silent, obedient servants. I got the sense that he was operating on me while I was asleep or anaesthetised, sometimes removing internal organs, and sometimes inserting devices of his own invention.

At one point I somehow escaped with one of the other servants. We saw that we were on the outskirts of a town. As we struck inwards, heading for the centre, all of the electricity went off, apart from on a stage where an old friend was playing a huge stringed instrument that looked like a giant crossbow.

The golden-eyed man caught us during the blackout, despite all of his limbs being broken and unreliable and jerky in their functioning. He tied me up. He was angrier than ever, completely unhinged, howling and running and slavering. Back at his house, he started assembling a white leather Samurai suit around himself. I was sweaty and trembling. I remembered the advice given to Jacob Singer in Jacob’s Ladder.

Stop struggling to hold on to life and these demons will start to seem like angels trying to free you from this earth.

Then I woke up.


Posted in Uncategorized on January 19, 2009 by Tom Fletcher

I’m shaving, and I notice a mole on my left cheek. Well, I see it again. I’ve always had it, always known about it, but never thought about it. I hesitate. I don’t want to shave over it in case I aggravate it. It’s flat, not protruding, but still. So I shave around it, carefully, and then look at it again. I’m going to end up as one of those hairy-moled old people. I can see myself now. Shuffling around like an angry, undead fruit.

Cleaning Up

Posted in Fictions on January 19, 2009 by Tom Fletcher

There is still a substantial amount of rice fried onto the bottom of the wok, crusty and irresistible. I hold the pan in my hands and lean back against the worktop. The kitchen is small and cold. I look out of the window above the sink and across the nearby rooftops. I look down into the pan, at the rice. It looks like all the flavour of the meal – egg fried rice – has reduced, been condensed, into that thin, uneven residue. I pick at it, peeling the stuff away from the black pan in small scabs, flakes of crispy rice and chilli and lemongrass. It tastes delicious. I raise the wok to my face and lick at it with my tongue, but my saliva dribbles down, and follows the curved side of the pan to run down my neck. I tuirn around and put the pan flat on the worktop. I bend down and lick at it in this position, the stability of the worktop meaning that I can really exert some pressure. My tongue works at the congealed remnants and as it does so I can feel it lengthening and hardening and developing a sharp, knife-like edge. It starts to make a scraping sound and the rice comes away more easily. I start to taste the metal of the pan, and can feel black specks of burnt food – I know they’re black without seeing them – all over the inside of my mouth. The pan falls onto the floor and I follow it, getting down on all fours, pushing it around the linoleum. My tongue is nearly half as long as my arm now, and thick and round and strong, and black. It makes a metallic sound as it clangs against the wok.

I am excited at the possibilities!