Carnival of Pandemonium

 As I approach the end of another hard term, I have realised that I am tired. I don't know why I am so tired. I think it is because in the depths of my mind I have told my body that we are working for a certain amount of time and that's all I could cope with! Don't get me wrong, I am by no means soft, but I think that when you are working to a certain point, your body focuses on the end goal and can do no more than that.  Thankfully this weekend, my wife and I are going shopping for a new mattress. It is much needed. We got our original one just after we got married 6 years ago. It came with the bed we bought and to be honest, it has never been the right one for us. I have finally accepted that we need a new one! I think 6 years is long enough for any mattress, but one that has never been right- it is long overdue! I am hoping that after a couple of nights on the new mattress that I'll be somersaulting into work full of energy and I'll be able to reignite my flaggin

 Summer 1993  If you are reading this and nodding, then like me, you are probably old. If you are googling 'what are phonecards?' you probably are not old. Plot twist- I am not old, at the point of writing I am 38- but when things that I remember are no longer in our culture and way of life, it does have a habit of making me feel a little bit... well... old! So phonecards... In a misty time... a time before smartphones... a time before Google... a time before iPads... an altogether simpler time... we had something call phone boxes. Obviously you have heard of phoneboxes. We still have them now, although I really don't think anyone uses them- I haven't used them in easily 20 years. But when these were in common use- somewhere back in the late 90s- what happened when you didn't have any change to push into the telephone so you could ring your mum to come and pick you up when you were stranded miles from home? Well... we had something called a phonecard! These were pre

 I honestly can’t remember the last time I had a good night’s sleep.  We have a two year old boy who still gets up at least once in the night- even on the all too rare occasions when he has slept through the night- he’s up at 5am. I’m not moaning- it’s just a fact.  To be honest, baby induced lack of sleep aside, I’ve never been someone who can fall asleep at 9am and sleep for a solid eight hours.  Instead, I actively avoid it at all costs. There’s always something ‘I need to find out’ or something ‘I should be doing’.  As a consequence, some nights I have been still awake at 3am scouring the internet for the answers to life’s questions- when really all I’m doing is adding another wrinkle to the collection already residing beneath my eyes.  Why am I like this? Why do I actively avoid sleep? I think it comes from my absolute hatred of being sent to bed by my mum at a time that was in my opinion far too early. I remember staring at the ceiling in my bedroom dreaming of the fun I’d have ‘

 "There", she said, "how was that?" "Same as usual," he replied, "shi..." "Don't say that word!" she interrupted. "I'm sick of that word!!!" He sat there, paralysed from the neck down- old age and multiple sclerosis had seen to him. He could no longer move a muscle, yet sadly, his razor like, acrid, spiteful speech still remained. She spooned the food into his mealy mouth, dribble falling onto his arm.  She'd dealt with these 'remarks' or purely put, atom bombs, that were delivered on a minutely basis for 62 years. He'd provided a home- a good one, and they never had to worry about money- but to her that was a bare minimum. They were isolated in the countryside. Nobody could hear you scream... and believe me this happened on an all too regular basis.  "Shiiii", he began again, reveling in her disdain, reveling in her shame. She knew it would be over soon. Hopefully. She'd calculated that o

 This is the first in my series of 'flash fiction'- short stories in the form of approximately 200-300 words. Life sure can be a rollercoaster... The feeling of dread and sickness was replaced by a resigned acceptance. This was cemented when the safety belts clicked magnetically into position. Well, there was nothing that could be done now. At least it was a story to tell. It was actually quite refreshing to relinquish control for once- to put your life into the hands of another. This 'another' was an acne ridden 19 year old student who mindlessly pressed 'go' and 'stop' all day long. Well, the film studies degree had to be paid for somehow.  The car cranked its way up the incline, jerking and pulling its way up similar to the motion of an ocean liner. Be under no illusions, it was not smooth. As the car climbed, the tension grew, palms became sweatier, grips tighter, bodies frenzied. We knew the car would make a sudden stopping motion at the top- I had