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The serious writer is but a story in a story by Finnegan Flawnt

June 15, 2010


After having published more than one hundred and fifty stories on his finely wrought and yet incorporeal blog, after having negotiated precious terms of endearment with hundreds of reading and writing strangers and after having created a virtual, almost fleshly creature more than a character but a creator of characters himself, the serious writer felt the need again to touch something real and be touched by it.

Rites of Spring

June 14, 2010


He noticed a short, strong white hair from his beard on his tongue and decided not to take it out but see what would happen. A moment later, a tiny bear emerged from the cave of his mouth, grabbed the hair and pulled it on his lap to play with it.


April 1, 2010


He was supposed to place photographs of his family, if he had them, on the desk. He was not supposed to leave a pair of handcuffs or a butt plug, if he had them, laying around on that desk.

At a Welsh Wedding

March 17, 2010


“I give traditional Soviet toaster”, Woshinsky said to the bride, handing her a grey metal box covered with large, red Cyrillic letters and the picture of a happy socialist couple touching a silvery toaster.

23:46 hrs – Kiritimati, Christmas Island

March 5, 2010


The longer I lie here, listening to my still functioning electronic innards, the more afraid I grow of detonating after all this time. I don't share your gods, but I pray I shall die a silent death.

Rose Petals

February 14, 2010


A supermodel, carrying a large Valentine's box, fell from her considerable, prized height on the ice in front of the grocer's and stayed down, her long, shapely legs distorted somehow.

Obituary for a Poet Heretic

January 22, 2010


When he died, people wore dark colours and said nice things about him. They played sad music, which he wouldn't have even liked, and they had his deathmask taken which made him look limp and not like him at all.

The Serious Writer and His Penis

January 9, 2010


“Only strong personalities can endure such size, the weak ones are extinguished by it”, said D., a red head with an imposing chest eyeing his cock. The serious writer, his past fogged by reckless existentialist thought, recognised the Nietzschean rudiment and smiled knowingly.


December 27, 2009


On August 12, I realised that my asthma was an unwillingness to take life. That I was alive nevertheless, and remained so, was, for me, one of the many paradoxes of existence, strewn across our path as unsolvable riddles, tough mind candy to chew on. I did not care for His jokes.


December 12, 2009


Every time I read a great line by another writer, I feel fear, in case I might, journeying the desert, come to a hut, knock at the door and, upon seeing eye to unseeing eye with my destiny, be required to speak my mind and need that line because no other will do.