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“They’re just stories,” she scoffed, throwing the book down upon the table contemptuously, “they don’t mean anything.” The corners were dogeared already, the leaves withered and yellowing from age, the letters faded. Countless thumbs had turned these pages, each owned by a narrator of their own secret story. The book could tell more stories than merely the words it contained.

Posted By Barber On 05.07.2013 @ 6:52 am

Tears tumble like vinegar down the deep trenches in her face, streaming over the crevices of her faded old skin and splashing onto the face of the dried old photograph. It was a haunting mirror, only half true now and stuck desperately in the past as she looked on at the handsome young couple smiling back at her in smudged black and white. A tear for every year. She sniffed back the flood and accepted a terrifying peace in feeling closer to him today than she had since he drowned in the trenches seventy years ago.

Posted By Barber On 04.09.2013 @ 9:15 am

I was destined to be set free, and that’s the extent of my destiny. They say ‘what ever will be will be’, but that’s not the same as destiny. I say ‘whatever will be will be when you make the decision to make it be’. So look where you like if you like what you see, since that’s up to you and that’s up to me.

Posted By Barber On 03.27.2013 @ 5:00 am

The wallpaper is of a style beyond an era I could name, and yet the condition is perfect; no tattered edges, no curled corners, no scuffs, scratches or scrapes. It doesn’t have the same old-person smell that so many of the others had either, nor even that taint air of alcohol gel and cleaning agents. It just seems fresh here at WestAcre Care Home. A bronzed light falls through netted windows of a large west-facing room. It’s filled with chairs not strewn randomly around the room but placed intentionally and with care so as to nurture conversation. The faces are varied. Some wrinkled, staring wistfully over the grounds at the setting sun, other soft and smiling, engaged in quiet conversation over a cup of tea and a hand of hearts. Their conversation drifts through the air like music in a next-door room, audible but not invasive; I catch little bits here and there as we wait at the door, and I know this is the right place for him. His tales will go down well here, and I know he will receive theirs eagerly.

Posted By Barber On 03.12.2013 @ 10:58 am

“It’s been a long time!” he exclaimed, his smile wide but his eyes muted. “How have you been?” I asked, loosing my tie and setting my pint briefly on the corner of the table. Perhaps he could see through the feigned interest, but he played along. “Very well indeed,” he went on, “I’ve been travelling. South Pacific mostly; New Zealand, Tonga, Samoa. I spent a long time moving around urban Australia – you know – Sydney, Brisbane, taking whatever work came my way, seeing whichever girls came my way!” His grin was very broad, but still his eyes betrayed him. “Anyway, I only flew back in yesterday and I’m exhausted. I probably should get on my way.” As we shook hands I looked for the sun-stricken tan line beneath his watch; the freckled skin; the bleached tips of shaggy hair. I like to think of myself as pretty perceptive, but I found none. He was always like that at school.

Posted By Barber On 02.07.2013 @ 2:30 am

I haven’t written a oneword for a while, I think it’s about due. I like language, I think it’s fun. Homophones are my favourites. Especially how they’re not always homophones depending on your accent. Due know what I’m talking about? I hope you due.

Posted By Barber On 12.17.2012 @ 4:03 am

Burning torches and red faces, but no hoods, no balaclavas. We have no shame in this, no secrets. We sweep the streets like a slow stampede – calculated and considered but no less catastrophic. We don’t scream, we don’t shout, but the sound of smashing windows is drowned beneath the beat of marching feet. Storm strike the city streets; united swarm; swamp assassin. Together we swell to fill the space, together we stand beneath city hall steps. Together we rise.

Posted By Barber On 11.30.2012 @ 1:18 am

Late. Easy. That’s an easy one. I’ve got loads of ideas, loads of stories, loads of examples. I know exactly the story to tell, though there are so many to choose from, and exactly the words to describe it. And you’ll love it, too, I know you will. It’s just the best story, you’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll sympathise. I know how to tug at the heart strings, I’m kind of an expert (if I do say so myself). Right, I suppose I ought to get cracking.

Oh, too late.

Posted By Barber On 11.23.2012 @ 6:34 am

“And what did we learn today class?” There was smudged ink on his hand and a flake of minestrone in his moustache. His cheeks were red; though not with shame or anger. There was a muted shuffling. Eyes flickered towards the clock. Feet slipped into shoes. They sat. For the first time in the afternoon, silence ruled. “Well?!” he bellowed at blank faces. “Nothing?!” Now his face had cause to be flushed. His bellowing was drowned by the bell, and nobody stayed to listen to him rant. He was left huffing at the blackboard, picking up paper plans and pen lids. “Those blasted kids never bloody learn!” he mumbled into his mug.

Hypocrit.

Posted By Barber On 02.12.2013 @ 6:58 am

She had something there, sitting casually between her teeth like a book on a shelf. I couldn’t tell if it was a permanent fixture, some kind of unfortunate dental work, or the by-product of a rushed falafel wrap en route that needed just a little attention. It would all soon be forgotten, I was sure, but for a first date it was an awkward accessory marring an otherwise beautiful girl. Such a shame.

Posted By Barber On 10.22.2012 @ 7:29 am

The neon sign was captivating, and for a good fifty seconds I stood and stared, captured by its warm inviting glow. There was something hopeful about it, something exciting, like a glimpse of a future with flavours of reminiscence, nostalgia, the familiar. I was lost in the feeling until the bouncers ushered me in…

Posted By Barber On 10.18.2012 @ 5:27 am

There can be no denying we have become more civilized as a race, as a people, as humanity. Our medicine has improved dramatically over the last two centuries, almost even to the level of our impressive homicide and self-destruction. Our politics have become a level playing field, even if it is because nobody trusts anybody. The classes soon will meet in the middle as our money transcends value, if you can excuse the fact that it’s the ignorance and greed of the bankers who are taking more and making it worth less.

Yes, all those dreams of equality are finally reaching realisation; albeit the realisation that it’s not quite what we meant from the start…

Posted By Barber On 10.17.2012 @ 4:48 am

Wet? Yeah, you could say; raindrops avalanching from my nose, my saturated shoes squelching every step as cars splash muddy puddlewater across my chest. Looking forward to drying off at the pool.

Posted By Barber On 10.12.2012 @ 4:37 am

These Walls, cold and close; the only respite that tiny, flaky hatch. The solitude whips me into a frenzy until I freeze, again. These Walls, all 99.

Posted By Barber On 10.05.2012 @ 4:20 am

Variety, they say, is the spice of life. There are various other cliches too, however, and sometimes it’s hard to choose. Tried and tested; safety first; better the devil you know… For me, well, I don’t know. Maybe my palete is weak. Maybe I like life mild. Maybe I’m too straight-laced…

Posted By Barber On 10.04.2012 @ 3:55 am

Little more than dust, to begin with. Just dust and bones and hair and dead cells; lifeless and abandoned. Just dust and bones and hair and dead cells, and then one breath; inspired and inspiring.

Posted By Barber On 09.28.2012 @ 4:50 am

Afraid? No. No, not at all afraid. Not afraid, perhaps uncomfortable, but not afraid. Not so much fearful as dreading, but not afraid. No, no. Those footsteps, like smashing woodlands. Not afraid, not me. Cold, not cowering. That knock on the door like cannon-fire. Afraid? Me? Perhaps.

Posted By Barber On 09.24.2012 @ 2:04 am

Where does any good story begin? The beginning? Of course not. So while I lie here bleeding, breath catching on each shattered rib, tears streaming and teeth clenched, let me tell you how I got here. Let me tell you how it all began…

Posted By Barber On 09.21.2012 @ 4:27 am

Fake nails, fake tan, push-up-bras and hair extensions, Make-up, shake-down, put on and work out, Smile and wave, walk and weave, Sir, madam, thank you please, Nice words and compliments, closed doors massive bitch.

Posted By Barber On 07.17.2012 @ 5:27 am

The water dripped from the ceiling with rhythmless persistence, the poor bucket trying so hard to catch every falling droplet. Mouth open, arms open, filling slowly with the burden of the builder’s negligence. Eyes to the sky, what the bucket had failed to notice was his own split, his own splinter; his own mess pooling beneath him, soaking into the carpet below.

Posted By Barber On 07.09.2012 @ 3:28 am

Tiny fractures, like splinters in the palm, like cracks in the glass. Every action applies the pressure, every fault shakes the foundation, every word works the pain outward from the heart. And that’s exactly where the damage is, and that’s exactly what’ll break first.

Posted By Barber On 06.22.2012 @ 3:39 am

At a glance it’s beautiful; well built and well maintained. But nothing can hide that smell of bullshit, no amount of tapestry or artwork or concealer. Your temple is a lie, my friend, and that’s the invisible pillar supporting the facade, but only the surface crumbles without it.

Posted By Barber On 05.29.2012 @ 3:52 pm

It was at the family’s brand-new summer lodge, tidy and well-kept, that I met my first love. It was at the summer lodge where I had my first kiss. It was on the veranda of that summer lodge that I got down on one knee, silhouetted against the sea-fallen sunset. It was in that summer lodge that I painted a room blue and pink and built a crib when my love told me the news. It was in that summer lodge my own son got down on one knee like his old man so many years ago. It was in that lodge that I held my love and we cried until the sun rose and set again when we took the call from the doctor. And it’s in that lodge that I sit now, alone and old as the paintwork peels.

Posted By Barber On 05.24.2012 @ 1:11 am

It’s not just for the travel, it’s for the journey. And it’s heavy, and it’s burdensome and it hurts.

And it’s not just emotional – there’s that symbol of it too; the lip-stick stain on your cheek, that scar… that hickey.

It’s terminal.

Posted By Barber On 05.12.2012 @ 8:18 am

Space-captian Collins, eldest of elders, flicks thoughtfully through the thousands of pages of the old brown book in his hands, his long index finger tracing the words. Beneath them the blue-green ball squirms silently on its axis. Collins reaches out his arm to pluck the rocket from the sky between his thumb and forefinger, examining it in close detail. “Primitive creatures,” he mutters, tossing the warhead over his shoulder into the oblivion beyond.

Posted By Barber On 05.11.2012 @ 3:53 am

Tags on baggage and boarding pass checked. Frequent-flier points through the roof. I sit in departures with my eyes on the runway, watching other planes come and go. All these people with their return flights, their homes to return to, families and friends to return to, lives to return to. I’m only ever outgoing.

Posted By Barber On 05.10.2012 @ 3:59 am

To be, or to do? The cause, or the effect?

I did, now I am.

Posted By Barber On 05.03.2012 @ 3:48 am

“I shouldn’t need an alibi,” she sobbed, gasping for air. “I loved him!” Mascara-smears panda-ed her face enough that even I felt guilty looking her in the eye. Cunning little bitch.

Posted By Barber On 04.30.2012 @ 9:15 am

I lick my lips as I look at her, not in the way one looks at a cake or confectionary, but in uncomfortable empathy. The walls of my stomach split as I see the corrugated crevices in her undulating lips wax and wane with every vile word, spittle setting on her chapped lips, crevices forming in my own brow as my face wrinkles in disgust.

Posted By Barber On 04.25.2012 @ 4:21 am

He standing there with his designer beard and his designer clothes and his designer hair, smoking his designer cigar through gritted designer teeth. And in the reflection of his blacked-out designer shades I see the broken man bleeding on the floor, the sun glinting off the corner of the frame as I hold my guts in through the wound of his designer katana.

Posted By Barber On 04.19.2012 @ 12:57 am