09/01 Direct Link
Once this month is over, I will have completed one year of 100 words.

One year, full of thoughts, feelings and whatever randomly pops into my head.

I like looking back at my old batches. Not because I think they are wonderful and artistically perfect, but because they are a small snapshot of who I was.

Have I changed? I'll leave it up to you to decide.

I feel that I should celebrate, when this is over. Have a '100 words party'. There could be 100 candles on a cake.

Or, I could just tailor no significance to the event.
09/02 Direct Link
I often construct elaborate fantasies. Immerse myself in a self-created world, a piece of fiction within my own mind.

Part of me does not like this.

Why? I ask.

Well, I reply, It's because it's not real. If it's not real, then it is meaningless.

But, I retort, With that argument, all writing is meaningless, and I know you don't believe that.

True, I counter, But you know the writing is fake. You accept that. When it comes to your own mind, you desperately want it to be true. Which is sad and pathetic.

Well, I reply, Shut up.

09/03 Direct Link
Isn't she lovely...

'Well, isn't she?'

'Yeh, I suppose.'

'What do you mean, I suppose. She is unsubstantially beautiful. She is unfairly gorgeous. She is, if I may put it so crassly, hot.'

'Yeh. But, I mean, what can you tell from a photo?'

'That she is hot.'

'Yes, you have already made that argument. I accept that. But for all you know, she may get off on torturing kittens.'


'Beauty does not mean you are automatically instilled with a wonderful personality. She could be disgusting.'

'But she's aesthetically pleasing...'

'Which just shows how shallow or lonely†you are.'
09/04 Direct Link
I'm a dream maker.

An actual dream maker.

I'm the one who manufactures and distributes those seconds long blasts of intense fiction.

Some scientists still believe that the sub-conscience creates dreams, but that's because they are boring and unimaginative. If the sub-conscience struggles to be heard whilst you are alert, how, then, is it supposed to make it's presense felt when you are no longer metally active?

Yes, I make the dreams. From the wildest to the mundanest.

You may be wondering why I include nightmares. The answer? To make you realise how wonderful it is to wake up.
09/05 Direct Link
My friend and I were discussing, as normal teenagers do, what was the point of suffering.††

My friend initiated the conversation.

'Why is life rubbish?'†

Strolling along, I thought for a while, concidering†the answer.

'To allow good literature to be written.'†


'Nobody wants to read about good things happening. We like conflict and disaster.'

He†was silent for a moment, and then started to list all the things that had gone wrong for him lately.

At which point, he turned to me and said

'You had better write something good.'

I'm trying.††
09/06 Direct Link
I just called to say I love you...

'Richard Dawkins?'


'This is God.'


'No, I really am God.'

'If you are, then please induldge me. You're all knowing. Tell me something only I and your good self would know.'

'At night, you still cuddle your childhood teddy bear, Darwin. You never let anyone else see him, but you love him more than any theory.'

'...Who are you?'

'Like I said. God.'

'Why are you calling me? To tell me I'm going to burn forever in hell?'

'No. I just called to say I love you. Always and forever.'
09/07 Direct Link
I must say, I do try and put a face to the words.

However, I have no idea what you actually look like. For all I know, you could have radioactive green hair, bursting yellow eyes and be over seven feet tall.

You probably are not these things, but I seem to have a rather over-active imagination.

I remember when I had my brace fitted. It hurt for the first few days, and eventually settled down. I wore them for roughly three years, and I still have a slightly wonky jaw.

But keep with it.

See you around, possibly.
09/08 Direct Link
How to respond if someone says you are drunk

'Of course I am, as are you.'


'Soberity is an illusion. A concept rather than a tangible object. Everybody in the world is drunk, some are just at different stages than others.'


'It's the same principle as cold. No such thing, only the absence of heat. There is no such thing as a cold molecule.†Therefore, cold does not exist and neither does being sober.'

And, of course, the perfect thing with this argument is, if people don't agree with you, well, they shouldn't, because you are stupidly drunk.
09/09 Direct Link
It's my birthday today.

As of this moment, I have manged to survive another year.

I had my first driving lesson, during which I manged not to crash or stall the car. My Mum did point out that this could have been due to the instructor having duel control, but I prefer to indulge in the idea that I'm not that bad at driving.

I didn't have a party. I think that, if I did, I would finally be admitting that I was growing up. Which is something I most definately do not want to do.

Take me to Neverland...
09/10 Direct Link

When I was older, I met† 13 in a bar. You know. The physical representation of the number.

He was only slightly overweight, with hair thinning like winter trees. Fat lips carried a ridiculously small moustache and foggy glass eyes stored depression like ants store grain.

I decided to buy him a drink. After a while, he pointed towards the lighter end of the bar.

'That's 7. Over there. The one surrounded by girls.'

And indeed he was. You couldn't see him for all his admirers.

I asked 13 whether he wanted to swap places with 7.

09/11 Direct Link
The invisible girl. He often thought of her like that. He could see the smoke, but no fire. He would grasp, but it would float gently out of his hand, curling towards the sky.

He would scan the faces in the crowds, looking for her. Just to say hello.

It was useless, and he knew it was useless, but he persisted. Why? Because he wanted to glimpse the invisible girl, even if it was without knowing it.

He put his thumb under the strap of his bag (it was cutting into his shoulder)†and carried on walking home.

Thank you.
09/12 Direct Link


'Would you like a flower?'


'Well, I was walking to work this morning, and I passed a flower shop. This bouquet of flowers were sitting in a black bucket and, well, they looked so beautiful and smelled so lovely that I thought it would be unfair to the world to let this beauty die. So I brought them, and now I am trying to give everyone one flower. Beauty deserves to be shared.'

'That's so nice.'

'Apart from, you know, female beauty, because then you are just a...'

'If you say the next word, I'll kill you.'
09/13 Direct Link

I think that my Mum worries about me too much.

I see her bemused and dispairing look whenever she reads some of my entries.

'You need a girlfriend.' That's what she told me.

I honestly thought about it, and came to this conclusion:

-Let us, hypothetically, say that I can get a girlfriend, which I can't.

-When would we go out? I'm busy Monday, Tuesday, Wenesday, Thursday and Sunday.

-Let us say that, hypothetically, we find time. What do we do? I am a terrible converstaionalist, and there is only so many times you can go bowling.


Don't bother.

09/14 Direct Link
I'm glad you no longer feel guilty.

It was nice to finally be able to put a face to the words. It seems that you do not have radioactive green hair, bursting yellow eyes, and are not over seven feet tall.

Which is good to know.

The rain was perfect. It seems that life does have a sense of occasion. I had always wondered.

I took me a while to realise that I was smiling as I walked home. But I was.

I'm not quite sure how to conclude this...

Feel free to say hello again, anytime.

See ya around.
09/15 Direct Link
Sir Duke...

This entry is dedicated to Duke, the 91 year old saxophonist.

After he left school, he was scouted, and played one season of rugby with the London Wasps. However, his career was cut short when war broke out.

He carried his clarinet with him on D-Day.

Whilst advancing to Germany, he would hold music concerts in barns for the troops.

He brought his first tenor sax in Berlin.

After the war, he played the hotels and clubs around London, and eventually gave up music to spend more time with his wife.

He is quite, quite†amazing.
09/16 Direct Link
'Two atoms are walking down the road. The first says, 'I've lost and electron'. The other says, 'Are you sure?' The first replies..'

''Yes, I'm positive'. That's such an old joke.'

'But that's not how it ends.'

'Yes it is.'

'Not in my version.'

'...Carry on.'

'So, to which the first replies, 'Why don't you ever believe what I say?'. The second then goes 'What do you mean?' The first says 'You never believe me, I hate you!' The second says† 'Stop! Come back!, but by then the first has run into the road and been hit by a car.'

09/17 Direct Link
He stole smiles.

He would wait for you to smirk or grin, wait for your lips to rise to the sky, and then...

He would come up and steal your smile.

You would never realise it. Just a faint breeze would slip past your face. Condemned to never smile again.

He would hang them up on his walls. All the smiles he stole. Place them in picture frames, gold guilted, and let them be embraced by the walls.

He would hang the special ones over the fireplace. The first he stole. The most difficult to collect. Mine and yours.
09/18 Direct Link
"The sun rose, having no alternative, on the nothing new"

That is the opening line from 'Murphy' by Samuel Beckett.

We were discussing openings, and what makes them effective, in creative writing. This was the one that I found most interesting.

The lack of choice. The almost depressing nature of what is normally classifed as a wonderous event. The biblical reference.

My teacher explained that the book was about the dark, sarcastic and ironic side of the human nature. After telling me this, she said,

'Actually, David, I think you would really like it.'

What should I infer from this?
09/19 Direct Link
Master Blaster (Jammin')...

Master Blaster was the master when it came to jam. He could identify what type, where it was made and how old it was just from listening to the sound of the lid coming off the jar.

Rather than a wine cellar, he had a jam cellar, where he kept his most precious jams, only broken out on special occasions.

It was a few years ago that Master Blaster realised something. He hated jam.

He never told anybody. His whole life, his whole identity was built up around jam. To deny it would be to deny himself.†
09/20 Direct Link

There is nothing wrong with being dark, sarcastic and ironic.

Nothing at all.

In fact, I feel it should be taken as a compliment.

How many people do you know have been described as 'happy'? What about 'funny'? 'Bubbly personality'? 'A legend'?

Everybody gets these labels. Everyone in the world. I bet even Stalin was a 'lovely person really'.

But someone having the courage to call you dark, sarcastic and ironic is wonderful. It means that you are truly unique. A minority. It's something that you should be proud of, not insulted by.

Rejoyce! Be dark, sarcastic and ironic. Be you!

09/21 Direct Link
When I was younger, I loved the knife-sharp, cold days where you could see your breath.

I'd pretend to be a dragon. Some days I'd be a train.

I had a friend who could blow smoke rings from his condenced breath by puckering his lips and making a smaking sound as he released the air.

My method to make smoke rings was to blow out whilst moving my head in a circle. It made me look idiotic, but my rings were bigger.

I was reminded of this walking to school, and for a few seconds, I was five years old.††
09/22 Direct Link
He could hear colours.

Actually hear the sound that they made.

He loved the sound of green. Violins very quitely humming to themselves, whist the cello yawns and the double-bass mutters under its breath. The flutes fly above and the clarinets sing with joy.

Purple was a saxophone, growling and spitting, giving a lewd wink as the ladies walked past.

Orange was percussion. Salsa. Off-beat rythms that skipped along the sand.

White was a harp, playing notes self-conciously.

Blue was a basson, playing notes confidently.

And black? Well, black had no noise at all. Just silence reigned.
09/23 Direct Link
Part time lover...

That was his job. Clients would book an appointment with him and, for a specified amount of time, he would be their lover.

Not in a physical sense. He wasn't a prostitute. His service was to offer love. Pure love.

Some clients would want him to write a poem. Bring them flowers at work. Serenade them with a guitar and a rose.

Some would just want to creep into his arms at the end of the day and watch television.

It was a job. He got paid. He never questioned the morality of what he was doing.
09/24 Direct Link
I was going to write something about being lost today.

Feeling rudderless, without direction. Floating on an uncaring wind, moved by external events over which I have no control.

In short, I was going to write something depressive.

Then a wonderful thing happened.

I walked home in the rain.

I couldn't remember the last time that I felt so alive. Standing tall, I smiled to myself as I was scratched and bitten by the rain. The last time my hands were that cold, I was throwing snowballs without waering gloves.

I loved it. The rain reminded me of life.
09/25 Direct Link
'What are you doing outside?'

'Having fun.'

'But it's raining.'

'Congradulations. You have the observational skills of a chimp.'
Won't you get wet?'

'Again, wonderful. You have grasped the concept of cause and effect.'

'What I mean is, how can you be having fun?'

'Ever heard of nihilism?'


'It's a philosophy that says, because there is no life after death, our lives and our actions are meaningless, therefore we should do nothing.'

'That's very depressing.'

'It is. I hate that philosophy, so I'm going to have as much fun as possible in order to annoy whoever came up with it.'
09/26 Direct Link
He was in love with her.

Analysing every aspect of his feelings, this is the only conclusion he could come to.

He was in love with her.

His thoughts turned to her like flowers turn to the sun. He would imagine the feel of running his fingers through her hair, placing his hand on top of hers, gently leaning forward and coating her lips with his.

It was a new sensation, and one that he wished to explore. He had no idea how to go about it, but he would try.

He wrote short†poems about her.

He loved her.
09/27 Direct Link

Redemption song...

Who knows the story of King David? You know the one. He had a guy killed in order to show his misses his harp, if you know what I mean.

He hated himself afterwards. Who wouldn't? So he wrote a bunch of songs saying sorry, basically.

Redemption songs.

Didn't work, poor devil. Reason being, they were so good. And as everybody knows, hell has the best tunes.

Yup. We got Mozart, Elvis and a whole bunch of others. Not Shoenberg, though he deserves to be here.

If you don't want to end up in hell, don't be a musician.

09/28 Direct Link

An ode to A-Levels, and the events within them

Oh! A-Levels!
You make my heart go a' singing
Oh! A-Levels
I hate it when the bell starts a' ringing

To my classes
I am never late
One of my friends was
Poisoned by potassium manganate.

I have disected a rat
Along with the words in poems
And Italian unification
Doesn't rhyme with poem.

It seems that in chemistry
We have just been told lies
And you will never guess who
In Atonment dies.

Oh! A-Levels!
You make my heart go a' singing
Oh! A-Levels
I hate it when the bell starts a' ringing

09/29 Direct Link
A poem inspired by Ikea.

A, a, a, about, admit, always, and, are, away?, bit, cares?, clever, did, down, end, end?, figure, flowing, for, for, I, I, I, I, I, If, If, If, Iíll, is, it, it, its, jump, know, knows?, line, listens?, little, little, love, loved, Lucky, moon, more, move, must, never, of, of, onto, out, page, possible, reads?, run, say?, scream, Self-indulgent, start?, Swivels, than, The, the, the, then, this, this, told, topic, towards, up, very, way, What, Where, Where, which, Who, Who, Who, Who, will, words, would, would, Would, write, you, you, you, you, you, you, you


09/30 Direct Link
You are the sunshine of my life...

Looking back over his poetry, a sudden realisation struck him.

He had been born 100 years too late.

His poetry featured sunshine. Flowers. Cows standing in a field, chewing cud. Birds and their songs. Sunshine.

His poetry was no longer any good. It was past its sell-by-date. The World War had changed the face of poetry forever.†Sarcasm, bitterness and irony throbbed through the pages.†

Not in his poems. His spoke of a time before cynicism. Of an idealised world which no longer existed.

His words were redundant.†