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It's time! In fact it's past time. Get it out where it can't hurt you any more, kids. They say a problem shared is a problem halved. Unless your confidant is a bit of a loudmouth. Then it's probably doubled.

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STOP[a vent by an anonymous source]


Punching

Posted on Friday 9th June 2017 at 12:09am

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people out


THE BELGIAN CHARTS[a blog by mev]


A very brief work of fiction

Posted on Friday 28th April 2017 at 1:47pm

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He indicated left, and pulled his small blue sedan sharply off the road left, through a rusted metal gate hanging loosely open at a useless angle. The driveway was of blue-metal lined by tall grass and through it to his right he glimpsed a rough dog emptying itself in a worried squat. The windows were down, and he winced as he drove through a thick, sweet waft of recent death - probably an off-course wallaby launched abruptly over there from the main road earlier in the week. He watched the dog in his rear view as it moved through the rigid grass toward what might turn out to be the morning meal.
His phone rang. Without even glancing into his lap he knew it was her. No special ring-tone, just somehow the way it rang, by some strange means his phone transduced the urgent stress with which she would have punched his name. "And FUCK YOU" he said aloud as he slowed down to negotiate the well worn cattle grid. "No-" bdddoom "...interest...Ah!" he twisted the volume knob to revel in the song just on: 'Highway to Hell'.
The blue metal gave way to hard-packed red dirt, and the grass was slashed and greener from here. Suspicious cows glared witless queries at the car and the plume of dust now following, then returned unsatisfied with the lack of answers to the lush green leaves between their hooves. Bon declared that he was "going down..." and Angus' red SG screamed over the last few rings of Marie's unanswered ring-tone. It struck him then, with a pleasing tint, that as a Belgian, she might know that the album reached number 14 in her country, one of the highest in European charts at the time, if not the highest. And now he's using it to drown out the lorn cry of her disregarded phone call. Delightful!

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TENDERS[a blog by an anonymous source]


An extremely short work of fiction

Posted on Friday 28th April 2017 at 10:22am

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Long, crooked and oval-nailed tenders pressed clumsily around and into the dry, red folds of her shrinking violet. Parched and harried flakes of dislodged skin fell like wizened petals, down into a crack between the twisted floorboards, with a sound like seeds through paper.


PRIMA FACIE RENAISSANCE[a blog by an anonymous source]


A brief work of fiction

Posted on Friday 28th April 2017 at 7:40am

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The night his daughter created his facebook profile marked the beginning of a whole new adolescence for Jimmy. Having suffered happily for the last few decades playing in bands whose softened rubber never quite found the loft to leave the tarmac, finding this thing, this ... fresh attack on life, was like a big bay window thrust suddenly and merrily ajar, the light smashing gaily into his face and the brisk sea breeze setting a-dance his long white locks - he'd just jumped headlong into a renaissance!

And on the seventeenth of every month, as they and the years marched buoyantly forth, he still gave thanks for that jubilant October day: a bunch of Bellflowers for his favourite daughter, delivered to her desk at work, and in school holidays, to her home, her hotel room, her tent.

In this wondrous land of endless digital edits and new beginnings, he could do what he did on stage; he'd close his eyes, and move with the steady beat of the music, the white on top turned dark and dreaded, his skin toned down a hundred lux and the telltale moves of the sloppy alcoholic gave joyous way to cool, swept him into a rich and giddy swirl of pelvic bliss, and everybody saw him as he saw himself - Jimmy Jamaica, the Reggae King of Bondi Beach.

Once in a while of course, cracks would appear, and as one of the great contemporary bards so wrote, "There's a crack in everything; that's how the light gets in", and this is how the reading public or at least friends and friends of friends would view them, these gaucheries that were in the main innocuous. Jimmy wasn't above a thoughtful retraction either - the faithful beauty of the edit remained his friend - I'd hazard no real harm was ever done on that timeline. Socio-political or just plain political were often where these indiscretions found the light. A staunch left-leaning world view amongst a community composed primarily of artists was often a pretty safe bet for Jimmy to bank on an abundance of friendly thumbs.
But there were other, more regrettable traits that on occasion sought the sun, and this one time, uplifted on the back of a big support and maybe four fifths of the rider under his belt, Jimmy stepped sanguinely around someone's welcome mat and over their threshold.
This was a time when he could have stayed a guest if he'd only wiped his feet. But he tracked a trail of muddy, jack-eyed hubris up the hall and parked his arse 'in the major's chair'. ALL CAPS AND "YOU'D BETTER BE AS GOOD AS I THINK YOU SHOULD BE 'CAUSE I SET THE BAR 'ROUND HERE", and that was it. The keeper of the timeline proudly brought down a withering salvo of blistering slights upon his punchy crown, thus the Reggae King of Bondi Beach got whitewashed by a crashing serf.


STAYING UP LATE[a blog by an anonymous source]


I keep staying up late even though I'm tired

Posted on Monday 5th September 2016 at 3:12am

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I can't put myself to bed at the moment :-(

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EX BOYFRIENDS[a vent by Alrac]


Why it's not always about them

Posted on Sunday 4th September 2016 at 8:35am

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Yesterday I "ran into" an ex.

An ex of the category: medium to recent-ish history. Destruction level: high.

When I say "ran into" it was more so "spotted". At a gig. A gig he had no right to be at. An excuse? Possibly, yes. A reason? Possibly too. But a right? Absolutely not.

I immediately excused myself to my friend and said I had to leave. She was worried and concerned for me. Nice, sweet, caring.

But why did I leave? Why when I had every right to be there and he possibly had a tenable 'work' reason but no legitimate social or community reason.

I didn't leave because I didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable. I also didn't leave because I didn't want to have the confrontation.

I left because he is a dick. And I know him well enough to know that it would only be moments before he demonstrated this behaviour with a nasty comment, dagger-filled look or a huff followed by a slammed door and child-like exit.

I could have been a dick too. I could have stayed and given him death stares or greasy's from across the room. I could have sidled up to a male stranger and started some inane chatter, knowing full well it would have made his blood boil to have all his expectations of me fulfilled in front of him without the ability to lash out, due to his 'work' reason for being there. He would have been trapped like a bug in a box. The bug that he is. Without any way of being able to spray his uncontrolled rage and psychotic emotions. That would have been mildly satisfying.

I chose to leave however, because I knew it would be minutes before he chose to follow his natural course of dickkery and do or say something consistent with his intrinsic, pathological drivers. And when he did that I knew I that I would come down on him with the full force of every emotion, every thing I never said but wanted to, every wrong he did against me that I never righted, and every pathetic, immature and self-serving criticism and head fuck he put me through.

I chose to leave because I feared what I would do to him and not for what he would do to me.

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