never wake

it feels like i’m falling away
like you don’t want me to care
then tell me, why am i here
tell me why i’m anywhere

all that i’ve held onto
i guess it doesn’t mean a damn
fain just let me disappear

the nothing i had, you burned it all
so at least let me be warmed a little while
gift me a last unbeholden smile
then tell me why, why won’t i die

all that i’ve clung onto
i guess it isn’t worth a damn
fain just let me disappear

it feels like you don’t want me to feel
i’m the face you’ve unseen behind the door
don’t tell me to dry my tears
don’t tell me anything at all

everything you said
was all i ever knew
everywhere i trod
was to keep pace with you
everything i felt
i’m everything imbued
i’ve never needed you more
to enslave myself to you

you’re the stone that weighs within me
beneath this binding arc of decay
lo, i am death, lo, i am sleep

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2018

ABSURDIS EXTREME // Case Study #643 [23/09/2977] by B.A. Loney

This is the story of a strange phenomena. It was a lonely phenomena that kept happening in all the wrong places to all the wrong people, so naturally it was feared. But you shouldn’t blame it, truly. Its intentions were the right ones, and there’s nothing wrong with trying to make the wrong places and wrong people right, eh?

So, how did this lonely phenomena present itself to the world? Well, in the only way it knew how. It was a presence in a room—the darker the better. It’d sneak up to the wrong persons and whisper the right things, right into their ears. Yes, the right things. Right into their ears. No wonder they shat blue lights! Anyone would. And as they shat themselves, the dark room would become lighter and bluer so that there was no darkness left at all.

The lonely phenomena thought it was doing a good thing, but when the room became well lit, the people it had whispered to would see that there was nothing there, and shit themselves even more. They’d freak out, maybe even cry a bit, and run screaming from the room. And so it was that everything became wronger. Wronger and wronger. So wrong, in fact, that the lonely phenomena eventually gave up and stepped off a very tall building one day.

No one has had anything scary—or even a little untoward—happen to them since.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2019

GUEST POST // Peak of Loneliness by Purpleanais

After years
of dedication
a hell of a lot
of stress
a smidgen of luck
a bucketful of pure selfishness
and mighty hard work –
money, success
and power
are now yours to hold
you’ve got what you’ve always wanted
pushed everyone away for
you’ve finally found the fucking match
and set the world on fire
it’s blazing
dazzling
flames
as high as mountains
blue-oranges, reds, yellow-gold
not seen since days of old
Alas, you’re watching that intense glow
completely and utterly alone

 

by PURPLEANAIS
© All rights reserved 2015

Oops!… We Did It Again (melancholics anonymous)

Erm… hullo there. (This is rather awkward…)

Dear Reader, the stuff that was originally posted here has been removed.

We have done this because said stuff has since been included in one of our published books. We hope you’ll believe us when we say we’re not trying to be stingy. No, this has been done to honour the people who have already spent their hard-earned money on our eBook creations.*

If, however, for some reason you’re unable to buy one of our books, and feel you’ll die without seeing this piece of writing, then please contact us via admin@unbolt.me. We won’t allow our Dear Readers to fade away in the dark. We’ll send you the piece in question, and it will be absolutely free. All you need do is ask.

* Of course, we would be like two happy puppies if you too decided to buy one of our books.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2016-2018

GUEST POST // The Mural by Mark Renney

sign-of-the-times1

illustration by Christine Renney

 

Edward visited the supermarket at least two or three times a day and sometimes as often as five times. It was a habit he had acquired quite unintentionally and it had been gradual. But since losing his job he had started walking to the store on the other side of town. And frequently he found himself compelled to buy only what he needed or whatever it was he wanted at that particular moment in time. If this was an apple and a banana, he would just buy those, one of each and carry them home. And later, when he needed a drink and found himself wanting for a Coke or Fanta, then he would simply go back.

Edward had time on his hands and his days now lacked structure and form and walking to the supermarket was something at least.

In order to reach the store he was forced to make his way alongside a lengthy stretch of the busy dual-carriageway that divided the town. Edward followed the curb, barely raising his head until he had reached the underpass.

In the basin beneath the road the walls were covered in graffiti. The work of many hands, a mix of tags and styles. Some of it had been scrawled quickly and was crude and naïve. But most of it was intricate and carefully planned and was obviously the work of artists who had nurtured and honed their skills elsewhere. And now it was all connected, like a mural and for Edward the message was not I WOZ ‘ERE but WE ARE HERE. But it was fading and down there in the half light, unless you stopped and really looked, much of it was already lost.

Edward lingered scanning the walls, searching for something he might have missed or even something new. Evidence that one of the artists had returned and was still working on it, keeping it alive. But, always disappointed, he made his way up and back into the light.

The housing estate on the other side of the underpass was big. At first, to Edward, it had seemed impenetrable but somehow he had managed to find his way and after all the months of to-ing and fro-ing he, and it, were intimate. He knew every inch of it, every path and all the shortcuts.

Crossing the courtyards and the communal area (the places where people were supposed to gather) Edward was always surprised, even shocked, by how quiet it was. The estate had an air of abandonment, as if everyone had simply left, deserted their homes. On a whim perhaps, or in fear, like something that might happen in one of those old black and white science fiction films or an episode or the Twilight Zone.

Edward imagined that behind the doors and the windows of the houses and the flats the tables were set. The food laid out but uneaten and untouched. That televisions and radios were still playing but no-one was watching and no-one was listening. And if a telephone were to ring in one of the public call boxes only he would or could answer it. But then suddenly he would stumble upon a group of youngsters, hanging around on a corner, or a dog walker crossing his path, and Edward’s daydreams would be interrupted.

Edward visited the supermarket at least five or six times a day and sometimes as often as eight times. He stalked the aisles and scoured the shelves. He didn’t carry a list and was determined not to have any pre-conceived ideas about what he might buy. But this proved difficult, impossible in fact. If, for instance, Edward needed to wash his clothes and discovered he didn’t have washing powder then of course this item was lodged in his head. And so to suggest that no pre-planning was involved would be misleading.

How could he not notice when the soap was nearly done or if the coffee jar was almost empty, likewise, the sugar bowl and the salt and the pepper and the milk. But Edward searched for the smallest available items, whether it be can or carton, box or bottle. He ignored the special offers, the ‘buy one get one FREE’ and the ‘buy one get one HALF-PRICE’ deals. He sought out the single sachets and the tiniest tins and, if he could, Edward would have reduced it even more. A spoonful of coffee and a splash of milk and a cup of water.

And not just the shopping but everything, all of it, just one tiny little step and then another but only as and when he needed to take it, as and when he wanted it.

 

by MARK RENNEY & CHRIS RENNEY
© All rights reserved 2015