He couldn't understand why they called him brilliant and when he was offered a Nobel prize, he declined. It made him sad to think they'd heap praise on him for a formula that calculated the end of existence. Brilliant? he thought, no thanks, I would so much rather fade away.


Pic: By Robbi Skye Campbell He assured him he would wait. His boss was going into a meeting with a guy to whom he owed a lot of money, a crooked deal, on both sides, and everyone knew it. That's why he set up the meeting . Hell, he was loyal to whoever paid the…Read more LOYAL


Pic: that's me in the middle, as Miss Jury's Inn, judge for the night of a gay fancy dress party. He couldn't resist but he tried, giving in would mean submitting to their demands, too willingly. OK, it wasn't all bad, some of these girls liked submissive men. Still, their demands seemed extreme, even by…Read more SUCCUMB


  Cloaked in silence, enveloped by a cloying gloom, Death stood in the Great Hall's cavernous doorway, waiting. For what or for whom, he wasn't quite sure? In fact, death's whole day had been one catastrophe after another, the chemical plant's toxic spill, the motorway pile-up and now a mystery corpse.


In another life, he was well heeled and healthy. He had a career, friends and a sense of direction, holidayed, regularly, in fashionable resorts where people recognized him, waved and said hello, anxious to be known of his acquaintance. As it was, life wasn't too bad, at least, that's how he saw it. He was…Read more Happy?

Modest Super Hero

If at first You don’t succeed, try, try, try again

Postcard from a Pigeon

“Are you a superhero?” the snotty boy with a thin film of dayglo popsicle on his face, asks.

He was asking the man in the dandyish Edwardian suit of shades of blue plaid with skinny pants and mirror polished, brown leather shoes.

“It all depends,” the dandy answers.

“On what?” the boy asks, one finger exploring the inner depths of his right nostril.

“On whether people value style over substance.”

Examining the treasure gathered from his nasal probe in myopic detail, the boy misses this last retort. He looks at the dandy with the same scrutiny he’s just given his mucilage.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Irony Man, “ says the dandy.

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  Music and Soft Shoe were sneaking backstage at the circus.  Soft Shoe notices Music's  gone. 'Music?' he whispers, 'Music?' 'Hey, Shoe? C'mere.' Music's standing in a cage. Soft Shoe sees Music lose his head to two lions. "Music has charms to TAME the savage breast," I told him, "not claim."