Archive for March, 2009

She Was That Girl.

Posted in Fictions on March 23, 2009 by Tom Fletcher

The one you really loved. The one you meant to propose to but it was so obvious you were going to get married that you never got round to it. And then it happened. Whatever happens to people happened to you. Something to do with growing older. You woke up one morning and felt very tired. You felt the same the next day. It dawned on you, slowly, that you would feel this way for the rest of your life. You looked different in the mirror; your eyes looked like those of somebody you cross paths with in town. Let’s be honest. Miserable eyes. Somebody at work laughed and said ‘If you’re not a communist when you’re twenty then  you’ve got no heart but if you’re not a capitalist when you’re forty you’ve got no brain.’ When you really thought about it you didn’t know what love was. You went out drinking with some friends and saw a girl at the bar. She looked like your girlfriend used to look. You felt something. A dry grain of rice fell down inside you. Maybe that was love. You didn’t know. You just couldn’t get a handle on it. Maybe the reason that love was so hard to define was that it was so very small. Maybe it was barely anything. Barely there. Maybe, being so close to nothing, love could actually be an easy thing to feel. Maybe it would be easy enought to love everybody. All of the time. If you could only work out how. You went home again. Your girlfriend was already asleep. It was Friday. You didn’t have to get up for work in the morning. You went to the bathroom. You went into the kitchen. You could have stayed up all night if you wanted to.


New Job

Posted in Dreams on March 13, 2009 by Tom Fletcher

A few days ago I dreamt I was one of those people who goes to murder scenes and works out, using science, the time of death. It was my first day at work and I had no experience. (I had lied in my application.) I had had no training. The dead man lay on a table in a pub. He had been killed there and a perfect rectangle had been cut out of his torso. His heart and something white from out of him were on the seat under a tablecloth. That was how the killer had left him. He was going hard and dry, like meat left out.

I didn’t know where to start.

Me and my colleagues decided not to worry about it, and we sat around the body and the table and got increasingly drunk. We were alone because the pub was a crime scene.

Then we went home.


Posted in Fictions on March 13, 2009 by Tom Fletcher

Something silver is moving quickly backwards through the dark. It is like a train but there are no tracks for it and there is no earth for any tracks. It is like a bullet except it is bigger than worlds and it is liquid. It is like a train, then, and like a bullet also, but different to both.

I want this silver thing to help me remember everything. Whether I knew it in the first place or not. I want the whole of space tattooed on my arms and back.


Posted in Fictions on March 11, 2009 by Tom Fletcher

I am nervously waiting for something massive to happen. Something terrifying. I am waiting for a phone call. A text. An e-mail. I am waiting for somebody to tell me exactly what they think about what I’ve done. I was nervous at first but now I just ache. All I can think about is the impending judgement. Everything else is fading to grey. Nothing else matters. Everything else is easy. All I can think about doing is checking my e-mails. So I check my e-mails. I think about David Shrigley’s little cartoon in which a weird man sits at his computer and the screen says YOU HAVE NO FUCKING EMAILS.

I have no fucking e-mails.

I look at my mobile blankly. It is not doing anything. I refresh the computer screen.

I have no fucking e-mails.

I send an e-mail to myself that says ‘youhavenofuckingemails’.


Ihavenofuckingemails. I have no fucking emails. Ihavenofuckingemails. Ihavenofuckingemails. Ihavenofuckingemails. Please. I have no emails. I am still waiting. I am still aching. My head and mind have turned grey. There is something massive approaching. Something huge and life-changing. Something terrifying. It is a Godly hammer. It is a judgement. It is entirely of my own making. It is only happening because of me. It is going to fall on me via technology and I don’t. Know. When.

I still have no fucking emails. Please.

Email me.

Fell House Parties

Posted in Non-Fictions on March 2, 2009 by Tom Fletcher

Now, Fell House is a house. Or is it a blog? It’s a mystery. Regardless of what it is or isn’t, though, here are some photos of Fell House parties. I think these photos convey a real energy. A real wild, youthful, devil-may-care, bright, joyful kind of pizazz. Vim and vigour, etc. Photos from a brilliant life full of bacchanalian partying. Yes. Fell House is full of piss and vinegar. You had better believe it.

(More photos will be updated at infrequent intervals.)