Friday Fictioneers: A Poisoning.

On the back of a meeting, full of work rubbish and efforts to increase productivity for little cost, meaning we have to bust a gut, for what? Nothing. It is indeed a fine evening when I have poured myself an IPA in error at, and settled down to see how Rochelle and the FF’s are hanging this dark winter’s evening, too dark to see the weather and the music too loud to allow the sound of the weather in. A photograph produced by the one and only Rochelle too, meaning a double thanks for keeping us all in line.

Anyway, Bagpuss style (google it) thinking caps on.

On My Marks…

Get Set…



I couldn’t say how long i’ve been looking at this view, fixed to my chair, bare feet wet in puddles on the floor.

Beings feed me 3 times a day, I think, although the days are confusing, light to dark and back again sometimes several times between feeding. The food is good but what is it?

White noise increases as the windows start to melt, pitter pitter; is this rain, or am I leaking, could it be sweat? 

The steps are swimming, becoming amorphous, dappled.

I’m forgetting .

Shapes and sounds, the glass pours shimmering wet.

Lights flicker,  I’m becoming the noise.

There we are; 100 words on the nose, about the deconstruction of a human.



  1. That is a new departure for you. I was looking for the nursery rhyme and then realised this was a darker thing altogether. I understood but was puzzled by the lack of emotion until I read your explanation that the narrator was being drugged.


  2. Dear Shrawley,

    I’d say this person’s cheese is slipping off his cracker. Becoming the noise. I like that.Perhaps he’s being forced to watch the American drug advertisements in my story. 😉 Nicely done.




  3. Shrawls… this was a departure from you and fabulously done. I wasn’t sure if he was slowly losing his mind to Alzheimer’s but saw your response on the drugs which, let’s face it, these places are not shy to use to keep their patients quiet.
    Truly wonderful writing, here.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Oh I don’t know, I just feel it’s not me, I didn’t feel particularly imaginative, I feel sometimes like I have to torture my self and be too cocky/ edgy when I write. A slave to the pen, I can’t abide putting stuff out I’m not happy with. And so I feel like it’s just any old junk. Maybe I should believe in myself a little more


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