He whom never existed

For as long as he could remember, he didn't exist.

Never had.

He was Roger Skwishskoft. Or, at least, that's who he assumed he was had he existed.

Climbing mountains

A time ago, a bit before the time I travelled back in time (or after, with relevance to my place in time, or yours, at the time), and a little after the time I tried my hand at being a Superhero, I set myself a goal to scale a mountain.

Not just any mountain, mind you.

Mount Pichachuchutrayn. 

An Easter (cotton)Tale

I approached the door to the house through the path from the front gate that was unhinged. It was quite the unnecessarily long sentence to do so but we got there in the end. The yard was overgrown with weeds, yet barren of grass with the earth littered with holes.

I rapped on his door with a consciously friendly beat. It worked. He opened the door with a wobbly smile and we exchanged pleasantries (ie. pleased to meet you; nice tie; I like the holes in your yard; and so on).

The Morning After

A blinding light pierces through the worn curtains that are my creased eyelids. Through the green fog floating about my brain I take my time to surmise that it must be 'tomorrow' at 'some time' in the 'day'.

The Sun's rays that have cruelly taken the opportunity to enter the room as it noticed the usual defence mechanisms have not been drawn across the windows form needle-like objects as it continually inserts itself into the back of my brain through my eyeballs. Though that sentence may seem long, confusing and painful to read, it is not due to the writer's inept writing skills (though they don't hurt) but a clever metaphor (or whatever it's called) for what it was describing.

The Blinking Christmas Lights Factory

Ah, Christmas time. 

Aaargh!!!!!! Christmas time.

The time of year where it is consciously accepted, even encouraged, to string up as many cheap flashing lights as one can and send the electricity grid into overdrive.

The Heat In The Kitchen

I walked into a melee in the kitchen. The appliances were bickering again. 

Apparently it all started when the pot called the kettle black, and the kettle took offence (it preferred the term 'onyx').

This Is Super

I haven't always been a Superhero. You could say I stumbled upon it by accident.

Go on, say it. Say. It!

[Caution: the following contains many superlatives]

A Timely Piece

[ THIS STORY WAS PUBLISHED BY SICK LIT MAGAZINE ]

Introduction: The literary work you are about to read has been widely described as "...ahead of it's time...". Granted, this was by me. And, mainly due to the fact that it hadn't been written yet. It was penned in the future and I went there, exactly to the future, to get it for you. So here it is. Ahead of it's time.

Have I ever told you about the time when I travelled back in time?