02.17 AM

MMITCHELLDAVISS

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 21:06:01 +0100

"I find myself with sympathy for the thief but know of no reason why I feel so. I don’t..."

Fri, 20 Nov 2009 14:56:00 +0100

“I find myself with sympathy for the thief but know of no reason why I feel so. I don’t encourage or cheer for the thieving but I would suffer his pain being caught.”

- Ian Jade, Scribbles, 2009

"Man can believe the impossible, but can never believe the improbable"

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 22:33:00 +0100

“Man can believe the impossible, but can never believe the improbable”

- Oscar Wilde

Untitled, Dahlia

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 22:28:38 +0100

Untitled, Dahlia

Blindsight

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 03:54:00 +0200

This is my first serious attempt at a short short story entitled Blindsight.

The time was upon dusk. The sky was reddening from the setting sun, as if a divine being had pricked hole with a needle and blood slowly flowed from the fresh wound, casting a shine over the fields of Elysian. Like every madman in this town, Elias Crowd rushed up and down the streets. Everyone bore long and brown or black coats. Women with their fashionable hair, men with their fashionable hair, children with their fashionable hair. Every being in this town was extraordinarily beautiful as they danced with haste down the streets with bags and suitcases: a stunning lady unsurpassed by the next, a handsome lord all men were.

Ephriam was not much different from everyone else. In fact, Elias Crowd wasn’t different at all. None would look upon him and think with suspicion a scandal is forthcoming. That day Elias Crowd was dancing elegantly down the streets. So was every other being, mindlessly chaotically dancing up and down the streets. The mere beauty of it was stunning. They were like mannequins, puppets mastered by a puppet master, a puppet master skilfully controlling dead bodies after decades of practise. It was an unthinkable art; it had become painfully breathtaking: deviance was no longer deviant.

It was a tragedy. Inaudible melodies were playing, from every shoe stepping onto the ground, every bell chiming in the wind, every chirping bird. It was like a beautified fairytale that did not end: and slowly the princess would ages, painstakingly wrinkles will be outlined on her forehead, crossing her temples towards her cheeks, creating chasms into her no longer fair skin. Elias Crowd was headed towards the bakery. The scent of freshly baked bread, sugarcoated pastry and newly opened marmalade went unnoticed by his perfectly shaped nose. He bought the simplest bread crafted from the purest flour for only few shillings. Through the skies, a single golden ray lay upon the glistening sugar. The golden ray caressed a diamond encrusting a silvery ring on the finger of a fair lady, the diamond lighted up the small, darkened bakery with iridescent colours. Neither the clerk, the fair lady or Elias Crowd took note of the theatrical play the rays of light acted out for everyone to see.

The townspeople did not whistle at the sky, as the birds tweet, they did not run in the meadow, grin, laugh or smile. The bright green and blue and brown eyes had been closed shut, the blond and brown and black hair was fading into an opaque mist cloaking the town. Elias Crowd left the bakery. Still every being was dancing with quickened pace up and down the streets. He danced on home to dine in the grand dining room by the end of his mahogany dining table three yards long.

Upon return, Elias Crowd did not notice. He prepared a modest meal accompanied by the simplest bread. Yet he did not notice her. Elias Crowd ate in silence, barely tasted the wine created from the finest grapes. Jaina Crowd sat three yards across from Elias Crowd. His wife ate the same modest meal accompanied by the same simple bread and drank the same wine as her husband. She didn’t notice him either.

The fairytale with no end does not see the life of happily ever after. Beyond the opaque mist, the setting beauty shone magnificent and loving rays encrusting the dazzled world.

My mind is blank

Fri, 11 Sep 2009 19:56:42 +0200

My head is completely empty. The tiredness is like a fog that has sunk down, covering my head. This is what my old teacher told me to write, when I had nothing to write. Without expectations to what I write like a explorer in a piece of classic literature. That’s what writing is to some one who cannot speak, but speaks, that’s what is it to me.

"How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot Eternal..."

Mon, 10 Aug 2009 03:15:30 +0200

“How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d.”

- Extract of Eloisa to Abelard, Alexander Pope

Truth, Ian Jade, 2009

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 02:53:43 +0200

Truth, Ian Jade, 2009

Digital Love, Ian Jade, 2009 (Made from inbflat.net)

Thu, 09 Jul 2009 06:14:45 +0200

Digital Love, Ian Jade, 2009 (Made from inbflat.net)

"With the prick of a needle, blood begins to flow from the wound, as a sun rising behind the skies."

Thu, 09 Jul 2009 05:42:00 +0200

“With the prick of a needle, blood begins to flow from the wound, as a sun rising behind the skies.”

- Sunrise, Ian Jade, Scribbles

"Imagine all the saints marching to war, Rescinding the bleak gods. I felt the golden rays reborn on..."

Mon, 22 Jun 2009 07:14:01 +0200

“Imagine all the saints marching to war,
Rescinding the bleak gods.
I felt the golden rays reborn on my pale skin.”

- Turn Greek, Ian Jade, Scribbles

Want (The Eclectic Garden)

Mon, 22 Jun 2009 07:04:00 +0200

Another story from Oscarandre entitled Want. And this time much longer.

When I was still just a boy, I learned that to want is a weakness and to want too much is to give power to others. Now I know that this is the history of the world but back then it was just another hot Saturday afternoon as I pushed my bike across the bed of a sandy creek and then rode up the dirt road towards Marinko’s house. I passed the field where Marinko told us he had killed the kittens. He had been about to dash their heads against a wall, as he’d done previously, when he decided instead to put the sightless, newborn cats in a hessian bag. Then he left the bag in the middle of an empty tomato field to bake in the summer sun. Each hour he would come back and make bets on which kitten would survive the longest. He was cruel, that boy, the cruellest boy in our town.

And, one day, in the fruit-packing shed at Marinko’s, I came to want the German greatcoat. I had seen it many times before, its black leather covered in stains, the tears where white undercloth showed through. It hung in a corner of the corrugated iron shed with the smell of rotting fruit and fertiliser. On this particular day, Marinko pointed it out to me. “My Dad got it off a German during the war. It was an officer’s jacket”

“How did he get it?” I asked.

“He was a partisan in Yugoslavia,” Marinko said and then, seeing I was interested, he called to his father, “Hey, Dad, tell us where you got the jacket.” Mr Vujkovic didn’t look up from the bunch of bananas he was de-handing with a knife. He said something I didn’t understand and Marinko shrugged. “He never tells you anything. It’s true though; he was a partisan.”

Marinko’s father showed us only the top of his greying hair, head down, washing the hands of bananas and laying them in neat rows on the bench in front of him. His white singlet was covered with the stains of banana plants, his black shorts smudged with mud. He never spoke to us and only pointed towards the house when we found him in the fields and asked about Marinko.

“Can I have a closer look?” I asked. Marinko climbed onto the fruit-sorting table and unhooked the jacket with two hands. We were only thirteen and he groaned with the weight. “It’s heavy; real leather.” Marinko handed the jacket to me and I held it clumsily, unable even to hold it upright in front of me. I longed to put it on even knowing that it would not fit. Marinko seemed to know what I was thinking. “It’s too big for you,” he said as he took it back and he wasn’t able to resist smirking at me. I hated him then, not because he was right, but because I felt something shift between us that made him powerful and me weak.

Then summer came and the cicadas shrill ringing in the trees added a familiar accompaniment to the trembling landscape of greens and browns. I rode my bike past the shady rows of bananas on the Vukjovic plantation which sat on the edge of the dry river. It was early afternoon and the fallow fields seemed to sway in the heat. I leaned my bike up against the wall of the fruit-packing shed and squinted into the darkness. The Vukjovic home, a small rectangle of fibro and tin, adjoined the shed with a single door and I heard this open.

Mr Vukjovic came out, paused for a moment and stared at me. “Is Marinko home?” I asked. He said nothing and moved toward bunches of bananas lying on their backs on a rusting trailer. I stepped into the shade and gradually my eyes adjusted to the light. I asked him again, “Is Marinko here?” Mr Vukjovic lifted a bunch of bananas onto his shoulders and then onto the bench. He picked up a short knife stained black with banana juice. “No,” he said. His voice was thick and guttural. We had had this conversation before and it never went any further. Each time I would get on my bike and ride away. But now my eyes briefly sought out the German greatcoat. Mirenko’s father noticed this and he put down the knife and handed the jacket to me.

I stood there holding it and feeling him watch me. “Germans,” he said. “We come out of the hills like this.” He made the sound of a machine gun and waved the imaginary weapon backwards and forwards. Then he laughed and I smiled back still holding the coat uncertainly. “Did you kill this German,” I asked.

Mr Vukjovic dropped his arms and his smile disappeared. “He was dead already,” he said and then he added, “But I made sure anyway,” He lifted his head and dashed an upraised thumb across the white stubble of his neck. Then he looked down at me with his arms by his side.

I heard him say something under his breath. When I didn’t reply he appeared to grow angry. “Do you want the jacket, boy?” I nodded. “Then you take the jacket,” he said abruptly. He motioned me away with his arm.

“Can I really?” I asked.

“You take it. I won’t shoot you.” But he didn’t smile when he said this.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, feeling confused like I sometimes did when my Grandfather made a joke that was like some kind of trap.

I walked towards my bike, the coat dragging on the ground. Marinko’s father followed me and stood by me as I tried hopelessly to fold the greatcoat, tried to place it on my handlebars knowing that it would not stay there. It fell and I picked it up, refolding it into a clumsy parcel. Somehow I managed to gain my seat and went a few metres before falling sidewards against the packing shed wall and then the hard earth.

Marinko’s father stood beside me and said nothing as I rubbed a scratch on my leg made by the bike pedal. “You put the coat on,” he said and pulled me to my feet with one arm. I said nothing now as he jerked the army jacket roughly over my arms and shoulders like a cape. The weight made me hunch forward. Mr Vukjovic picked up my bike, put an arm around my waist and lifted me onto the seat. “Go,” he said. “Go.” But part of the jacket had fallen over the back wheel making the pedals harder to push. I felt the man’s hand on my shoulder and knew that this was all that kept me balanced. Then the front wheel twisted in the sand and I fell. Again Mirenko’s father pulled me to my feet, placed me on the seat and pushed me forward.

When I fell once more, he turned me over roughly on the ground and pulled the greatcoat from my back. Then he walked into the shed and I could hear him dropping the hands of bananas into the water of the cleaning trough. I was crying silently, pushing my bike to the harder edge of the dirt track that led away from the house. I felt the sun’s heat on my neck; saw that I was covered in dust and that my tears had made strange patterns on my arms where I’d wiped my eyes.

A few weeks later I waited for an excuse, some small provocation, and then, without warning, I punched Marinko Vukjovic as hard as I could in the face. Blood spurted from his nose and water sprang to his eyes. He was in pain but he was also hurt; he thought I was his friend. “Why?” was all he said and then with sudden anger, he screamed at me “Why, you little bastard?” Other boys pulled us apart but I had finished. I walked away, my hands in my pockets to stop them from shaking. I never hit any one again in my life and I learned not to want things.

You can visit The Eclectic Garden to read more of Oscarandres work.

Through this changing time, Felicia (pseudonym: iNeedChemicalX),...

Wed, 03 Jun 2009 00:38:00 +0200

Through this changing time, Felicia (pseudonym: iNeedChemicalX), 2008

Informational Lovestory, Ian Jade, 2009 (Crafted on inbflat)

Tue, 02 Jun 2009 22:45:43 +0200

Informational Lovestory, Ian Jade, 2009 (Crafted on inbflat)

"Confine it, Denial Shoguns; Shade of Longinus!"

Tue, 02 Jun 2009 19:32:00 +0200

“Confine it, Denial Shoguns; Shade of Longinus!”

- Infection, Ian Jade, Scribbles

"A forlorn phone booth bathed in neon light under a darkening sky, I associate with naked demise."

Tue, 02 Jun 2009 14:48:00 +0200

“A forlorn phone booth bathed in neon light under a darkening sky, I associate with naked demise.”

- Phonebooth, Ian Jade, Scribbles

Madmen at the lights (The Eclectic Garden)

Tue, 02 Jun 2009 01:26:00 +0200

One person I admire is the author of The Eclectic Garden. I asked him if I could use them here at 02.17 AM, which he allowed. I am proud to display one of my favourites. He writes under the pseudonym “Oscarandre”.

Today at the traffic lights I watched a madman talking to himself, beating his fist against his forehead and staring with fury into a tree. I wondered what he saw there that I could not. When I came home I couldn’t help thinking of it; how I drove off lost in my angry thoughts, leaving him there with his angry visions, and both of us missing the sky.

You can visit The Eclectic Garden to read more of Oscarandres work, or wait to see more of my favourites.

"I believe that my poetry is the background melody of my life."

Mon, 25 May 2009 22:41:00 +0200

“I believe that my poetry is the background melody of my life.”

- Melody, Ian Jade, Scribbles

Unknown source

Sun, 10 May 2009 00:48:04 +0200

Unknown source

"The journey of a thousand miles begins with but a single step."

Sat, 09 May 2009 00:49:35 +0200

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with but a single step.”

- Confucius