New Short Story Book.

Just a little post to let you lovely folks know that I’ll be releasing my First Short-Story book on October 19th this year (which happens to be my birthday). 

It’s entitled ‘We Used to Watch the Snowflakes Slowdance ’.

Artwork and Preview Story are below.

{Staring at Stairs with Mr Jones}

I awake to find myself perched on and strewn across five stairs that make a habit of singing when I try to alter my posture. My arms feel like feathers that are tied down with anchors. My belt feels like it’s trying to strangle my hip bones. I’m pessimistic about the events surrounding this static collapse. These Light bulbs are making the sun feel unloved and unwanted. My morning voice would rival a sea of blackbirds. My soles finally introduce themselves to gravity and the floorboards, and I fully unravel my spine.

I hear someone’s footsteps approach me with minor stealth and with their major keys rattling. Panic sets in like concrete in teeth fillings. My stance is still irregular and convoluted at best. My eyes fuse and I begin to live in black and white long enough to fully appreciate colour. Those footsteps pace the landing as if they were trying to Morse code a message to my ears. I listen for patterns and pauses until I start to become hypnotised by the reverb that is bouncing from the ceiling and renting the spare room in my heart. I begin to ascend these elevation blocks in hope of finding something to settle this stomach full of cheap laughs, broken promises and heavy Australian wine.

I am met half-way by a skeleton that meets my eyes with his two black empty pockets. He convinces me to call him a taxi under an alias. I am skin and he is bones, I am Jack and he is Jones. Rock Paper Scissors doesn’t seem appropriate at this juncture. I pinch myself to believe this situation, and Jones takes offence. His limbs become musical as he dashes for the front door. I wave him off by motioning my umbrella and walk back inside the building.

I run my fingers along the dust train tracks on the bookshelf, wondering about the well being of typewriters everywhere. I neutralize my stomach by swallowing Lithium mixed into shot glass of butterscotch liqueur. I immediately see butterflies marching toward my eyelids and then disappearing. I notice scribbles on my hand that recites this very address. Unfamiliar with the handwriting style, I can only assume that I’m hopelessly addicted to wanderlust and hi-jacking parties full of humans i have not yet met.