Billy is Writing

  Foreword I haven’t written a word yet this year. Well, I’ve texted. I changed a line in a poem, too. I also made notes for a Youtube video- sorry, I started making notes for a Youtube video. I haven’t properly written, though. No prose or the like. Not until now, at least. The me of January 2024 would have been mildly embarrassed by this. What sort of ‘proper’ writer gets two (plus a day) whole weeks into the new year and hasn’t written a word? Is what I would have thought. Fortunately- and it is fortunate, because the agonising self-torment one engages in as an egotistical tortured artist is truly exhausting- I don’t really care anymore. Art is art because it's an authentic expression of one’s self. That’s how I’ve learned to see it. My writing will be written when it's time to write and not a moment sooner. With that preamble, I present to you- a middling piece of flash fiction that I had not even remotely planned out before I started typing.  Can Whimsy Die? Grief is a f...

  A Semi-Comprehensive Guide to Where We All Live by Theodore Glumpelshutz A long time ago, or so they say, there was nothing. There was no light, nor was there any darkness. There was simply nothing. Although I suppose there must have been darkness, at least there probably would have been if anyone were there to perceive it. After all, darkness is nothing but the absence of light.  All of a sudden, however, there was something . A whole lot of somethings , to be a touch more precise. Be it by science,  magic- or even a delicate combination of the two (I’d go with the latter personally, but hey ho- I’m an optimist)- there was something. Our universe was born. From then until now and probably later on, it has presided in its vast majesty over all of existence. The universe is everywhere and nowhere, in all the places and even the places with nothing else. A whole lot of something, though, doesn’t make everything . There was light and dark- but nobody was there to prove...

  Dancing on Steep Hill She’ll never forget the night they spent dancing atop Steep Hill, drenched in a delicate combination of sweat and rain. It started cold, but not in a way that bothered them. How could they ever freeze whilst trapped in a permanent state of warm embrace? She was his, and he was most assuredly hers. The moment began perfectly and the perfection maintained itself as the moment evolved into a memory. Sat on a damp bench, overlooking the picturesque city as though they belonged on an antique jigsaw you might happen upon in a Barnardos, they were sure that life could never stop being so wonderful. He opened his mouth, as if to urge himself to say something that proves their certainty is wholly misplaced. “What would you have done?” he asked, his tone reeking with that painful ambiguity that beckons a puzzled response. “What do you mean, love?” she responded, predictably confused. “What would you have done if I didn’t ask you out?” he clarified. “Oh. Not ...

Henry Hoover Can’t Swim Creation had always come easy to him. He could sit down at his keyboard and have 300 words on an idea before he even knew what the idea was. Inspiration was always there, floating in the shallow end of his pool until the productivity wave hit and it was time to swim. The funniest thing had happened recently, though. Well, funny if you’re his nemesis and his suffering sustains you. Somebody had put a vacuum in the pool. The second he stopped paying attention, it was all gone. Inspiration hit its head on the floor where water once was and died. He didn’t even realise this had happened until he sat down to churn out another classic piece of flash fiction and the smell of Inspiration’s rotting corpse had hit his nose. As you can imagine, this was an absolute nightmare for him.  He was not unprepared, though. Fortunately, weeks prior to the dreaded draining of the pool, Inspiration had given the struggling writer power of attorney. He had back-tracked the do ...

  Date Night The world we live in is home to many planes of existence. There’s the one we all know, the mortal plane. It is home to all life that ends and is by far, the most densely populated. There are many other notable planes too, such as the Celestial plane- or even Hell. Between all of those planes of existence, there exists a slither of time and space that few beings are known to visit. This plane, given its nature, is simply known as Limbo. I run a bar there. It’s a quiet little joint by the name of The Wayside. My clientele primarily consists of those that walk between planes, as Limbo is not really a place one can just stumble into. Sometimes, I get the pleasure of serving wayward souls who got lost on the way back to their bodies after a near-death experience. That’s always a delight. If you or anyone you know finds themself mortally wounded and in need of a stiff drink before your soul finds its way back to its body, stop by The Wayside and ask for the proprietor- you...

  The Burdens of Complexity Jeffery Morgenthau had spent his entire life being as much a bumbling oaf as he was an aristocrat of the highest pedigree. He was born into the Morgenthau family, and like his father and his father before him, he had not worked a day in his life for a penny of his fortune. The Morgenthau’s may as well be where the term ‘old money’ comes from.  This is not to say, however, that Jeffery was a self-absorbed snob who had never had a well-meaning thought in his life. He was a simple man at heart- a kind one too. Jeffery would bend over backwards to help someone, often literally. He was not the smartest man in Cambridge University’s graduating class of 1985, but he was the most well-liked. He had formed friendships in his time there that had stood the test of time not because of the fact he belonged to the fourth wealthiest family in Britain, but because he really was just a lovely man. Jeffery rented out entire restaurants for his group of friend’s to ...

  Something, something. He was all too familiar with that unwelcome sensation of forgetfulness that arrives exactly when you need it not to. That nasty little tingle in your brain occurs just as you’re about to contribute something meaningful to the world that completely erases your latest bout of profundity. “Err… no. Sorry, I’ve completely forgotten what I was about to say. It’ll come to me.” was a sentence he said at least twice a week. On occasion, he would remember, but that was not the preferred outcome. When at last you recall what it was you were about to say you’re often forced to come to terms with the fact it wasn’t all that profound after all. The audience of your peers will become flooded with a sea of disappointment. Your closest friends in the group will distance themselves, glaring at you with eyes drowned in avarice. You can only assume they were all thinking something along the lines of: “ We thought you were better than that. Really? That big thing you forgot...