moblog uk


group profile | members | imagewall | Microhappy maps

Very short stories to read at the bus stop.

Simply do this:
1. Register for a moblog account here
2. Join this group here
3. Email or MMS your picture and text to microhappy-AT-moblog-DOT-net

Add Short stories to read at the bus stop Mippin widget

follow @creativewriting

Search this moblog

Recent visitors

rss rss feed


(viewed 1958 times)
Richard didn't know he was dead, but he continued on his journey because he
couldn't stop himself. It wasn't a bus or a malignancy, bereavement or
bodkin that finished him, tant pis. It was to feed and make waste; to rise
again from recumbency; to take succour from adversity and umbrage at
atrocity; to love, without liberty, to mourn liberty, lorn of love; to bear
witness to the light and the dark in turn returning; to be suffered to suck
at the teat of his gaoler and to husband his ruination unto settlement of
debts owing to womb or ghost. It was the obligation to subsist that killed

Posted by Riddler

29th Mar 2009, 19:38   | tags:comments (4)

Between Friends

(viewed 1541 times)
"Wtfs wrong with your kettle?"

"It doesn't work."

"I know. I've been staring at it for 15 minutes."

Posted by jc1000000

25th Mar 2009, 22:30   comments (9)


(viewed 1746 times)
The old gods walk the earth all the time. We've learned to ignore them.

Here's one. Anubis. Out-of-work psychopomp, hanging around on street corners, too proud to beg. Larger than life. If he were our size, we'd bump into him and freak out. As it is, we walk between his legs, unheeding.

Collapsible scales in the back pocket. Somewhere on his dignified person, a feather. Sometimes he'll find a stone or half a brick that looks enough like a discarded heart and put it in a pan of the scales. Into the other pan goes the feather. When the stone demonstrates as heavier, he chucks it down a storm drain and moves on.

He pokes his pointy nose into alleys, ears twitching, looking for the newly dead from drink or exposure or quotidian violence. He cocks his head at each confused ba, curious to see if they know the rites. When they mill about, flitting in flocks like startled pigeons, he strides off to the next alley, neither satisfied nor disappointed.

One day he'll find the ossified heart of a saint, lighter than a feather, and toss it into the sky, where it will remain until claimed.


Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

21st Mar 2009, 23:39   | tags:comments (13)

these days

(viewed 1490 times)
I look down at my mobile phone for the time of day, I see the clock, the
date, I don't read them, I don't take in the information. Looking up from
the phone my whereabouts slides like a poster off the wall before my eyes; a
high ceiling, I'm in a room full of dry bamboo shoots, right in the hollow 'o',
in the clunk and thudding wood sounds. There's a girl pushing towards me
through the hardened curtains and she's laughing with that same mischievous 'o'!
She grabs, grabs and it?s wood clacks and owl coos and adrenaline. 'You
got me!' The timber curtains turn into people, hundreds of them,
shuddering with the train, the harsh strip light, engine hum and mp3 tin
frequency; us hugged together tightly. Good
morning rush hour. The sleepys wear
their bodies like overcoats so it's like we're hiding in a wardrobe, me with my
black cowl, she with a velvet material across her eyes, her mouth says 'Who
wears the hoody in this relationship?' Shrieeeeeek! We bash against the zombies like a tickling
outrage, a crash against their dream hangovers, we make their heads bob along
the sea of their shoulders. I look down
at my mobile phone for the time of day, I see the clock, the date, I don't read
them, I don't take in the information. I
look up from the LCD display into night time, her and me on the shores of
Barceloneta, I'm naked. "Go, go go!" The spirit amphetamine surges when she kisses
me away towards the water, the tepid air gone hot in my lungs I scream it out
above the white noise ocean and the thud of my feet in the sand as I'm running. I jump and turn back first, the wall explodes
in spray, shattered concrete, ice grains like electricity charge my shoulders;
I blackout. "How long have we been
here?" Incense smoke detaches in
thick strands and curls up to meet the cornice of our bedroom. "Two days." she says, enveloping my
head in the duvet and following me in, behind her the yellow lantern lights
blur out of focus; now they look like candles.
The tea lights make 50 tiny hemispheres dotted on and around a fallen
tree trunk in the park, they shape an arrow pointing up the verge, a signpost
to the London sky. She catches me remembering and four arms and
two bodies interlock like always, a way of sharing the memories. I look down at my mobile phone for the time
of day, I see the clock, the date, I don't read them, I don't take in the
information. I look up, my eyes hit slap-bang into a train window pane,
the buildings outside leave a trail with the speed we're at. She doesn't know why I'm staring out so intently,
likewise fixing me in place with her quizzical expression, keeping me there
until I satisfy it; "OK, Look now."
The night like punk lashes brush glass, cheeks flat out for curiosity
and I see those eyes go wide, so wide the other shoreline's for a vanishing
point. A series of letters in big, black
print run left to right on the passing office block window; it's a message for
her. We shuttle past and get imprinted
with what's written; does Time really move us away anywhere? In wonder and at
the barrel end of a Starfleet Phaser, frozen for the female officer in tight 60s
cut blue who's set to kill, "Don't shoot..." I say "...I got you a pineapple!" The red-orange rays tingle as she says it; "We're
beaming up." There's a shimmering
sound, some left over sparkles and the Berlin squat is every colour paint, all
angles and none of them; a camera flash burns our picture to the room, more
graffiti scrawl, a fine art tag of the sudden photograph. We let our partied-out feet drain down the
staircase, ourselves river afterwards like a metal spring, our knitted fingers,
nimble as invincible and unaware of modelling for the walls of spray paint. I look down at my mobile phone for the time
of day, I see the clock, the date, I don?t read them, I don?t take in the
information. The phone's screen light
clicks off leaving bruised purple squares across the darkness of the cloak
room, my eyes adjust as each square fades into the pixelating low light, out of
the fuzzing an A4 David Hasselhoff comes grinning celotaped to the fire escape
door, a speech bubble: "Meet Louis here." That's the silhouette, framed in the opened
door she rushes me, tumbling through the fire escape together we race nobody up
the stairs full pelt. The rooftop is
just another floor but with the ceiling missing, the Capital's landscape for
hour long lips, wine red as the last staining rays of Sun. In the sunset of flooded marsh land we watch
this sheet white animal drinking at a pond.
She whispers, "His mother was a unicorn." Walking home through the fields, we know like
we always have, together we are a universe.
I look down at my mobile phone for the time of day, I see the clock, the
date, I don't read them, I don't take in the information.

Posted by louis

20th Mar 2009, 20:53   comments (0)

Impractical Cats

(viewed 1916 times)
We weren't lucky enough to get practical cats, the mentalists and athletes of the feline kingdom. We just got that other kind.

They're not layabouts -- don't get me wrong -- but though they work hard and study hard, it's just not likely they'll ever amount to much. I mean, take Hawthorne for instance. Graduated high school by the skin of his teeth and took two tries to get through community college. Now he has an associate degree in Theater Technology, a brief resume that includes getting fired from delivering pizza, and last week he started yowling every night at sundown so we had him neutered.

Heather-Lynn just showed up one night on the living room window ledge, peeking between the blinds to watch American Idol with the wife and daughter (Madeleine and Gerty). She's intent on being a music producer, looking for the more promising cast-offs from the show to "rescue" and sign to her label. I took that as a warning sign and had her spayed immediately and dewormed to boot. Unsurprisingly she's completely tone deaf, but does in fact have a wonderful memory for lyrics. But she does not, in fact, have a label. Or a studio. Or any kind of musical taste.

Also, one of her farts can clear a large room in ten seconds. I don't know if it's what she eats out on the prowl for crazier-than-usual buskers or the steady diet of American Idol or what. But if you hang in there and tough it out, she herself will make an excuse and leave the room, looking for a lost oven mitt or checking to see if we have enough toothpaste or some silly shit like that.

And that one's McGillicutty -- if you'd seen him jump up onto that railing there you'd know he's no athlete NOR mental giant. The only reason he's not still sliding is that the paint is flaking and he's apparently grabbed onto it with his asshole. You'll get no hint of that while we're watching, but be sure he'll be walking funny for hours after we're gone.

He reads comic books and plays video games, so at least he's normal there, but he's WAY into shoujo anime, and you can't tell me that's right. He also tells me he's learning to write like Haruki Murakami. I've seen some of it. Let me tell you. Sometimes at night, when it's quiet, there's a ballpoint pen that lies weeping in a drawer. That's all I'm saying.

T. S. Eliot's been dead for forty years, and I guess it's not really his fault for raising the expectation of the typical cat warden (because, like children, you never really own them)... but if next time you see Andrew Lloyd Webber around, please kick him in the pants for me. He'll know why.


Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

15th Mar 2009, 00:19   | tags:comments (13)

Toilet Seats

(viewed 2141 times)
They called it a B&B;, but really it was a hostel for the homeless. By
the time he got there, he no longer cared. The woman in the woolly
cardigan showed him around.
"Why is there no toilet seat?" he asked as they passed the bathroom.
"We keep re-ordering them, but people steal them or break them."
"Why would anyone do that?" he thought.
His room was green, like nausea. Someone had covered the wall in
bogeys they'd picked from their nose. Every night he was kept awake
by sirens and strange guttural cries from down the hall. One night
there was a fight and the police were called.

Three weeks later his money came through and he was able to leave. On
his way out, he saw that the new toilet seat had arrived. He looked up
and down the corridor and then kicked it to pieces and left.

Posted by DoghouseReilly

Posted by jc1000000

Designing Next Season's Fashions from the Inside Out

(viewed 1937 times)

For the outer layer of the jacket and trousers consider tanned dura mater cultured from the tissues of an even mix of saints and psychopaths. The linings should, of course, be the finely networked vessels of pia mater grown from the cells of dead innocents, children and the profoundly retarded, kept alive by the warmth of being worn and fed through ports into the wearer's own capillaries. The insulating fill between the layers, the arachnoid, should be another tissue culture, taken from workaday drudges who died alone and unfulfilled, kept alive at first and then allowed to stultify and suffocate through the course of a season's wearing.

It's only fitting, then, that the underclothing, the clothing worn closest to the skin, be on the surface woven myelinated neurons cultured from the wearer's own spinal tissues with an underlayer of gray matter grown from the wearer's amygdala suspended in a matrix of bamboo fibers for breathability and Lycra® for a bit of elasticity.

Cut and Assembly:

Living media should be assembled and draped on a form of textured growth matrix printed from some sturdy and porous material formed from a body scan and painted with agar gelatin nutrient mixture until tissues are established. If done correctly, no stitching will be required except for dermal sealing of edges, though, for the purposes of emulating historical or retro stylings, feel free to grow individual pieces of tissues on sectional forms and stitch the pieces together later in the usual way, taking care to preserve blood flow where necessary for living vascular layers.

For garments that provide support and constriction, take care to mold in elasticizing and boning while material is still developing on the shape-optimized forms. Optimizations may be added surgically during final fitting, but, as most tailors and designers know, the process is more likely to risk the health of the garment if applied post-construction.

Final Fitting and Adjustments:

Take note that, unlike many fabrics, living tissue can be stretched -- slowly -- but not too much without tearing and obvious markings developing which may affect long-term wear and detrimentally affect aesthetic impact. Removing material is actually fairly similar to inert fabrics. The extra material removed to provide fresh edges for healing is quite analogous to leaving a seam allowance.


Once the flexible layers have been assembled and established as healthy, spray the outermost layers with a mist of cadherin solution and a peppering of stem cells cultured from the marrow of a loyal dog and keep dusted with raw bone meal and powdered collagen. During this part of the process it's critical that the clothing be worn normally so that the bony plates and scutes develop with joints where needed and do not inhibit flexibility.

If additional coloration or ornamentation is required other than that of the natural material or biological pigmentation that can be doped into the cellular matrices during the tissue construction phase, consider the effects that can be achieved with tattooing and scarification. If the tissue is suitably healthy, it should recover from tattooing and piercings in the usual period of time as long as care is taken to prevent infection.


Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

1st Mar 2009, 00:50   | tags:comments (4)

Manuscript (Not Yet) Found Stapled to a Telephone Pole Near Lenox Mall, Atlanta, GA

(viewed 2539 times)
"Beautiful death is not such a long walk from where we choose to spend much of our time, it seems." This was from Lorenzo, to whom I have, on several quite recent occasions, wanted to feed his pith helmet with a generous salting of ground glass.

We'd have to finish the gin first, though. The only glass we were carrying was the bottle. I resented its weight, but not the gin. Gin was the only way to handle the bullet ants, and I truly hoped the forest would run out of ants before we ran out of gin.

Lorenzo captured one of the enormous bastards and forced it down the neck of the bottle as some kind of poorly thought out magic spell against their venom and as a warning to the rest of their kind -- that we were coming with frustrated murderous contempt and well prepared to drink gin at them in our fury. It screamed as he put it in the bottle, and the glass rang with the sound, amplifying it. The memory of that sound I will take to my grave. Or someone's grave.

I am well prepared to drink Lorenzo's gin-and-venom-tainted blood when he finishes off the booze.

To think that just four hours ago we were in the mall parking lot looking for his Wrangler. Two cups of yagé tea apiece at the Teavana on the second floor, a missed interstitial boundary that Lorenzo lead us around counterclockwise in his stupor, and then Costa Rican rainforest. First he thought we stumbled through the back entrance into Trader Vic's Tiki Bar, then took a wrong turn through the enclosed exhibits at the botanical garden, and then... Well, now that he has sobered a little, I can only assume it's likely he's right. But without the yagé I can also assume that it will be a very very long walk home.

I intend to nick every kind of liana I see with my knife and suck at the wound until I discover the one that is yagé -- but now that I think of it, I'm sure the yagé juice will likely only keep me here. What we need to do is keep stumbling around and surviving as well as we can until we find a Starbucks, have a couple of Americanos, and then go the right way around the next interstitial boundary until we end up back at the mall. Or any mall.

I say "we", but if I leave Lorenzo's corpse behind, and his poisoned bottle of gin, I will be happy indeed.


Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

15th Feb 2009, 17:09   | tags:comments (2)