by J.W. Carey | Sep 28, 2019 | Prose
The crowds screamed – they wouldn’t stop screaming for him, cheering for him. He stood on the old stage, bloody with the years. His feet slid behind the pedestal, and his bare toes were wet with the lifeblood of everyone who had stood there before
by J.W. Carey | Mar 15, 2018 | Prose
The ceiling is covered in paintings, with no theme or substance or style but woman, and they flow down the walls like all of history…
by J.W. Carey | Feb 27, 2018 | Prose
She places her cigarette on the edge of the desk and watches it smoulder. The sunlight catches the smoke in its hands…
by J.W. Carey | Feb 23, 2018 | Prose
‘To tread upon the boards; a fool, a fool! To burn beneath the light and bleed into the blinding space!’
by J.W. Carey | Feb 21, 2018 | Prose
‘You’re not romantic;’ she said, ‘you’re too sarcastic to be romantic – you just laugh at anything I say’.
by J.W. Carey | Oct 31, 2015 | Prose
St. Christopher’s driving a 4by4 down the rattling madness of a mud-baked highway stone sweating pathway and Cain holds him up with Excalibur in one hand and a burlap sack with his brother in the other. Chris and a kid who looks like Jesus help him dump the body in...