The Terminal Show



Woke up and trudged to the bathroom and squeezed out a turd and thought about parallel universes as your image flickered through my irregular head like a flashing neon light. Yawning and groaning, I wiped my arse then jumped in the shower and washed away my sins wondering what it would feel like to die. Knocking one out while picturing my teeth on your neck, the tingly release in my loins made my legs buckle causing me to sink to my knees. Will the end be cancer or a dodgy ticker? A car crash or something more sinister? Who can say, but if these words survive another fifty years or so, then whoever’s reading them will already know the answer. Lucky bastards. When I’m finished drying myself off, I contemplate writing but instead read news articles that do nothing but fill my already diminished heart with despair. First is an article about two guys who cut off the ears of a dog before posing for photographs clutching an ear each with the dog head down between them. Wonderful, isn’t it? And then there’s a piece about a Canadian teenager who was beaten to death by two girls she went to school with. Out of morbid curiosity, I watched the footage of the attack that had been leaked online. As the victim was lying on her back with a bloody face pleading with her attackers that she was so sorry, they proceeded to punch and kick and stamp on her. At one point, you could hear the bones in her face break as a fist struck her over and over again until the footage came to an abrupt end. I typed her name into Google soon after and found a photograph of her as she had been in happier times. Her name was Serena McKay, and her killers are being tried for second-degree murder, but what’s done is done, isn’t it? In news closer to home, there was a story regarding a man who crept into the room of his ex-girlfriend as she slept and cut her throat ear to ear because of her decision to end their relationship. Ain’t this place just one long joy ride? Attempting to get my act together and write something, I typed a few words before remembering a conversation at work the other day where someone told me I was wasting my life. They proclaimed that writing was a bad idea and that I should get a proper job and settle down with a decent woman. I told her that I would rather kill myself than bow down to her crippled views of what happiness should consist of. She mouthed off and preached, but as I zoned out, it reminded me just how much I feel like a fish out of water in this place. And this feeling shows no sign of diminishing.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

23 replies »

  1. I had a similar conversation with someone who dismayed at my repeated refusal of any kind of promotion. They despaired that I wasn’t thinking about my career. When I started talking about writing and photography they dismissed it as a hobby. As something that I can’t base a living from. Because it hasn;t happened yet and it probably never will. Sometimes, you think a person might just have a handle on you and then you realise they are not only reading the wrong page but it’s the wrong book, and it’s upside down and covered in bluebottles.

    • At least it’s not just me who has to put up with it then. I had someone who dismissed my writing as a hobby as well. I don’t think they meant to mock me, but it’s like, really? I spend several hours a day every day of the week editing and writing and reading and searching myself for inspiration, and you say it’s just a hubby? But I don’t try and argue it most of the time because it’s as pointless as arguing religion. The older I get the more I see people have no clue as to the magic we’re trying to tap into, and as such, the more I pity them and their boring little lives.

  2. I read everything you write because you lift me and drop me and take where I live and where I’ve been. You can do that , the mark of a gifted writer Stephen. x

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