The Working Week by Mark McConville

Flash Fiction, Mark McConville

The Working Week.

Your tattoos show me what you think of this world. The burning flames, the skulls, the words studded in. The words do not reflect freedom and do not spell out redemption, they tell me that you are hurt, disjointed from society. Your heart tells you one thing, and your mind tells you to end the cycle, the monotony of life is trapping you, and you have no dreams to follow. Dreams what are they? You have not dreamt in months, your mind shuts off when you sleep, I wish that would happen to me. I dream too much about ghosts and ghouls, car crashes, a tornado crushing everything in its path. I dream about hollowed out faces and beards as thick as straw. Comfort has no place in my dreams, I am stuck in them for hours until I wake up feeling attacked.

When morning comes, I am exhausted, but I ready myself for the incoming force, the undesirable working week. You lie there sleeping, I yawn for what seems for years. I am done and tired, breaking every waking hour. Today, will be like any other. I will drink coffee and type up letters, dodge anyone who wants to lay their worries on me. This all may seem selfish and unpractical, but I feel the world weighing on me, its weight so heavy and its core so impenetrable.   

Getting dressed, wrapping myself in clothes I do not feel comfortable in has become repetitive. I am not a walking fashion statement, far from being a predominant feature, dressing like this only covers up a body which has been compromised. You do not know my past, my dark, fractured past, dotted in mascara tears and blotted in blood stains, you do not ask me about it, so I do not speak about it. May I speak about it sometime? That would lay to rest the feelings.

Forming words to say to before I leave is difficult. I am not a sincere person full of vigour. I say goodbye in the most genuine way possible, not leaving a kiss or an imprint of blood on your cheek. The working week is waiting for my bones to shatter, its waiting for my nervous breakdown to rattle me into a hospital room, but at least I have you to come home to. Will you be here when I am a mess, will you be sober enough to see me fully in the light?

I saunter down the street into the bustle of a city crammed with enlists proclaiming to be freedom fighters. They hold their signs for a better world, better diets, better healthcare. They may be battling for nothing; they may have to move from the spot they are occupying as the police form into human barricades. Breaking down this barrier which rallies for silence will be impossible for the cause. Coffee instils calmness. Bottle rockets fly. Damsels in distress clutch onto their men. Anarchy is brewing and the working week seems to be under threat. I stand observing men and woman giving their hearts. It is not for glory, or redemption, it is a rail against the grain.

Smoke fills my lungs. The flurries begin to gain pace. I enter the building where these letters will not be written in haste. Inside the main area, I see my co workers sit in unison, with their heads bowed down. Even the most audacious characters seem to be silenced. The music plays, the pop songs play out sweet melodies without any substance through the radio.  

I amble towards and see a man with a mask holding a gun. All my inhibitions crash, I crash. Angels have no say here nor to the leaders. It is us and him. Blood has not spilled yet, veins have not been blown to pieces, hearts have not caved in. Anger and repent overthrows the lights that shine on us. Feelings, what feelings can we channel now? He is destined to kill, to shoot bullets and disarm us from freedom.


I sit and look at the teary eyes. The colleagues I chose not to interact with are battling. There is one man between us a freedom. He holds a weapon that could kill all of us in seconds. He stands assured.

‘’This is now a hostage situation. Do not speak, do not stand or I will shoot’’

My day started with me staring at your tattoos. The skulls, the fire, the words that do not spell out redemption. I need you to scatter truth here. You aided me through the trails and tribulations, broke the latch to the shimmering light.

One man cries another scream. One woman cries another bellows.

Inside this capsule we are different from the rest. We are caught up in someone’s rage. We are caught up in his rage.

A phone goes and then the gun goes. One person is now dead…


‘’Please let us go’’

‘’If you stay quiet no one else will get hurt’’

He is a man supported by the grittiness of his own voice and the darkness. I assume he is jaded and sick.

‘’Do not move a muscle, I am telling you…’’

I stand and walk towards him; he seems to hesitate in opening fire.

‘’Calm, be calm’’

This man has become a killer in seconds. And I am not an angel of defiance, I am a stuck to one man and his tattoos.

I place the gun near my chest. He does not open fire; he does not make a sound.

He fails in his pursuit. No honour will come his way…

I remove his mask and unearth an elegant face.

Sparkles by Mark McConville

Flash Fiction, Mark McConville


I see you in the distance carrying a suitcase ribbed in silver linings. It sparkles in the night; you fell in love with it when you saw it in the shop window. Sparkles and things that gleam enthral you, you are the most fashionable person I know. You look back at me in this cold night, waving and crying, as I fear I will walk back into exile. Truth has died in my world, reckless feelings have overwhelmed any sense of reason, the moments when clarity conquered have been dispossessed. You felt my wrath at times, and for that I am apologetic, you danced with fear in the house we bought together. That house is now a broken foundation, a shell with no love or furniture, only a hard base to rest my heavy head when the world is grinding on my resolve.

The road becomes congested, the sparkles are hidden, your face becomes shrouded by smoke and screams. This city is a nightmare, a metropolis without the wonderful brochure. It does not dazzle like the countryside, the lush grass, and flourished flowers. Your face is fully covered now, subjected to the toxic smoke which comes from the cheap gasoline. You are gone now, and I must balance my composure with my sadness, but then I wish to deal damage to my insides, break the liver that has been grown in me.

I stand on the side-lines of melancholy, looking at my watch every second, in these streets blackened like a pair of old, smoked lungs. Light shimmers at moments but the streetlights are useless. I stand for a while, like a silhouette dressed in thin stitched clothes in a cold winter’s night. Waiting and waiting, but you will not return, you will find another man to tend to your wishes, you will cover over the cracks with makeup and optimism, when I am struggling to heat my body. I do not want to go back to the walls that consume me, I can often feel them melt into me, closing into my ribcage and obstructing my windpipe. And Time has elapsed. Hope has frozen in time. I am vulnerable to anyone who wants to attack and loot me of my life. I do not care much for my skin and bones, my brain and blood, I wish to be taken from this planet and burnt into mars.

I hear your voice in my head, a click of your fingers, the sound of your ringtone. You are stuck in my memory. You disappeared into the smoke beams, you triggered my sadness, and I am standing still. Violence eludes me as I am lost in thought, knives do not frighten me, gunshots are tiny sounds. Standing, standing among the roars, standing, standing waiting to be taken to the infirmary in the sky. All around me, are people fighting, screaming for revolutions, scattered like paper notes. I cannot dislodge from the thoughts that linger, the thoughts that you occupy.

Danger wreaks havoc here. The disillusioned fight with their shadows, the mean fight with everything. Ghosts and walls hope and love, their own dreams. The city has fell into chaos, and still I stand, not in a cocoon or armoured with steel, but open to shrapnel and wounds. And yet, I do not care, I do not feel obliged to run or to stave off these enemies who are here to put the city in a supersized grave.

You’re gone. Possibly strolling through suburbia, possibly on a train, or in a strangers car. I can’t compete, I can’t order you to come back and save this city and myself.

Keep Sparkling…

Manic by Mark McConville

Brit Grit, Flash Fiction, Mark McConville


She trembles in the snow. Her first instinct is to light a cigarette and inhale the toxicity. It’s been a long night, battling her own demons and the ones in reality. Reality is a deathtrap, and there’s no energy in her legs to run, to scatter from the position she finds herself in. The cold is unbearable and her lovely lips are chapped, her hands are rough and her whole body shakes. It has been shook for days. It is the 27th of December and the Christmas cheer finally dissipates and normality resumes, a normality that kills every ounce of jubilation. She is naturally a pessimist, void of dreams, lost in the loop of mundanity. A loop which goes on and on, tapping her mind and then resulting in mania. But this night is different, there is a concept to the storyline, a plot, a theme.

The theme is death. Death is on her mind. A bang from a gun, a bullet piercing through the skin and into the vitals, is playing over and over. It’s causing her distress, stress, a heartbeat so rapid that her heart could burst from her chest and onto the snow shrouded pavement. She’s alive with barely any clothes covering her hourglass body, she’s shaking so much that her teeth chitter, and no one asks if she’s okay, they only stare for split seconds. All these woman and men who walk past are going home or going to bars to drink their weight in liquor while this alarmed girl stands rigid.

It’s a shame as the lights shine and the people chat to their loved ones. It’s a shame that this girl, who yearns for closure and warmth, views the world through negative eyes. She’d rather die than watch couples kiss and share sexualized stories. As she dismisses the love bloom, she walks a little, trying to fix her mind into action. Empowered by manic episodes, her life has been one large disappointment, well that’s what she thinks. No mother, no father, no sisters or brothers, it has been one lonely twist of heartbreak.

Timid and sorrow ridden, she walks faster through the alleyway that leads to her apartment. Rats scurry, voices echo, the leaves crunch, and the whole city is louder than normal. The raucousness alarms her and frightens her. The recurring sound of a gun impedes her memory. She can’t dislodge the booming sound and grovels that gather pace. She doesn’t stroll now, she briskly marches towards her destination, a destination which won’t look pristine. In her mind, it will look the same, in reality, it will look torn apart.

She has lost her keys. She hurriedly locked the door and must have dropped the keys in haste. She smashes the window and climbs in, tearing her thin jacket. The kitchen is dark, and the feeling of heightened hesitation controls her. What happened? What unfolded? Is it all a dream, will she wake up and feel warm skin touch hers? Will the nightmare fade?


She trembles again. There is no response from the living room.


Lights flash in the window. The sound of dogs barking interfere.

‘’No, No, No’’

She utters the same sequence over and over.

She treads carefully over broken glass. The living resembles a crime scene.


Adam lies on the floor with a bullet wound to his left side.

The manic girl in the frame closes her eyes and staggers into the blood soaked room.

Flashbacks cut through the psychosis, and now she remembers.

It only took one bullet, one bullet to ruin two lives….

Herd of Angels by Mark McConville

Brit Grit, Flash Fiction, Mark McConville

Herd Of Angels …

There’s nowhere for me to rest my head, in this pit we all sit in, and drink in, feel feeble in. The light blinds me and my ambitions to stray from this temple of the unforgivable, the heartless, and the people who grind their lives to dust without even knowing it. Sincerity has no place here either. Compassion needs a lifeline, hearts inside these chests in this ungodly room, beat faster than a shooting star. They’re all under the illusion that drugs mean they’re invincible, and their decisions inconceivable but right in their own private worlds. 

I pick up a half-empty bottle of beer, drink it, and then throw it at the coffee table. It doesn’t smash, it only ricochets and drops like a coin into a deep well. Next to me sits a boy lonely in his own mind. He keeps on uttering the word ‘’Hopeless’’ at the thin walls, smoking a cigarette that hasn’t got much life left. And the futures of these people may have been mapped out, puzzled in, as all their eyes droop into a state, a tired state. 

The mixture, the cocktails filled with pills and alcohol have taken its toll on the livers and minds, and the silence becomes a loud noise in my brain. A monotonous sound which reverberates and echoes and my mind feels like it’s a coliseum of raucous thoughts and corrosion. 

I leave my thoughts in the living room and step out into the kitchen where sexual urgency once peaked, where it created some children who have grown into this framework, the walls built around them, where they may die if they don’t depart this dark place where ghosts roam and memories scratch at the skin which is draped over them.  

Water brings me back to life, thankfully. The thirst always comes after the 20 bottles of beer consumed in succession. Like a chain smoker, I consume alcohol rapidly, letting it flow down my widened throat. Then, as I drink more water, I detect freedom of speech gone wrong. 

The living room is bright red. Captivating unconventionally. There’s no paint here, but blood splashed up the walls. The young man, who was lost in his own mind, stands with a large knife in his hand. Brutality has been given a chance to shine here, and I’m the only innocent man alive here, staring at the knife and this kid who has been subjected to a psychotic episode. This isn’t real, it can’t be. I knew there was an oddness to his character, a monster waiting to burst from his thin torso, but on this night, I couldn’t have imagined it. 

He comes closer to me. His eyes like tyrant’s eyes. If they could turn red they’d burn a hole in the atmosphere. He isn’t a superhero, he’s now a murderer, putting it all on the line. Then there’s me, a man with a stomach full of alcohol and drugs, hopefully, caught up in a fever dream, a nightmare, a hallucination. But, no, this is real, this isn’t a figment, it’s an explosion of realism tapered to my imagination. 

As the dead lie on sofas and chairs, the man in front of me looks desperate. He wants me dead, so he can run. His inhibitions tuned out as the drugs moan for an upgrade. Earlier in the evening, he spoke about his heart being broken, shattered by a girl who stole every piece of soul from his battered body. When I listened on, I could hear the pain in his voice, the rasp, the despair. He only stopped when he knew more people were listening in. 

Another step, another broken heart purring for blood. My blood, he wants my blood. Another step, another unhopeful embrace. He isn’t a catalyst for good, he’s damaged, like the writers of this world, the ones who have had afflictions dumped upon them. Throughout the conversation earlier, he also told me about the nightmares he was having, the nightmares where ghosts swirled around and spooked the herd of angels. 

‘’Stay there’’ 

He has me in stuck to the blood embroiled carpet. With me, he shudders and doesn’t know how to handle the situation. Above him isn’t a glass ceiling he can smash and then ascend through. The only way out is through my heart and lungs.  

‘’Stay there I said’’ 

He’s breaking a sweat, I can see the shine on his skin. Truthfully, he’s losing his stance, his defence. 

‘’Give me the knife, we can sort through this’’ 

‘’How can we? They’re all dead because of me’’ 

‘’It was a moment of madness, we all have them’’ 

Under his breath, he utters a name. A name burned into his mind. 


‘’They’re all fucking dead, even’’ 

‘’Even who??’’ 

He puts his hand in his pocket and takes out a small bag containing a pair of eyes. 

‘’These, the only part of her I have left’’ 

I try not to wretch. The eyes still have a thin line of blue. 

He runs towards me in haste, stabbing me once, and then he escapes. 

I’m on the floor among dead people and the ghosts who endured much worse in a past that should be kept concealed. 

This house is alive, and the walls beat like hearts, and my blood only adds to a scene that will become a constant nightmare.

Two Poems from Mark McConville

Mark McConville, Poetry

Dear Mercy.

In a state of disrepair

Clutching onto old clothes

You left to be burned

To be dispossessed from memory.

Alcoholic taste in my swollen mouth

My tongue quivers at the next drop

It burns, and burns until my eyes water

Until my fists clench and my liver screams for dear mercy.

The approach to this pain

Is to drink more

To collide with enemies when they’re not even there

They’re in my thoughts

Melting into my brain.

Stricken by ghosts on the TV set

Fear comes to me down my arm like the signs of a heart attack

They’re flying around the overflowing ashtray

Nipping at my resolve, carrying banners,

That say ‘’you’re dead to me too’’

And these old clothes may need to be burned

So I can return to a state of normality

So this room can breathe again

With your spirit dead then I can try to open doors

To an outside world brimming in chaos and beauty.

Has the world turned from vibrant colours to a sorry blend of grey?

In these times

Politics don’t matter

Hearts marbled in grace do.

Tired and broken

We roam disenchanted

Thrown to the wolves of power.

I can’t

I’m sick

Of pride being dragged across the floor

It isn’t as relevant as before.

Stay quiet

Don’t let them see your weaknesses.

The Line Died.

You spoke to me on a payphone

Last night when you had alcohol seething in your veins

A monster you can’t control, a tyrant pulling you under,

This phone call epitomized love dying.

I sensed from your voice

Your addictions were aching

Powder up your nose

Bloodshot eyes disrupting your clear complexion.

You were a girl with so much vigor

A peacemaker dazzling strangers and friends

Your intelligent mind a capsule of invigoration

Your heart pulsating through your tattooed chest.

I met you at a casual university

You were smarter than me

Had numbers colliding with words in your head

You could recite poetry and writing of all kinds

I was at your disposal, I would have died for you.

When you started drinking

I was standing on a landmine

Around you I felt explosive

We were entangled in love

Counting change for the next fix of adoration

From wilder worlds full of color and dispositions.

It’s strange now that we’re despising ourselves

Your voice crackled that night

On an old receiver built fifty years ago.

Rain fell 

That night too,

I could hear the storm brewing

The tress rustling

The cars speeding

Moments in time rushing

For a conclusion.

I couldn’t help you

You were out of town

Struggling you stand upright

Sick as a dog

Not ate in days

Your dreams struck by rage.

And I was in sitting praying to God

That someone would save you from yourself

The line died…

Thunder In Your Words by Mark McConville

Flash Fiction, Mark McConville, Punk Noir Magazine

PhotoFunia-1590832754Thunder In Your Words.

I look for sincerity in your words as you speak softly, assuring me I failed myself. In this old café which sells the best coffee, I don’t feel the best, and wish to reset my life and go back to the days when worries were on someone else’s mind. They’re on my mind, settling there like a pool of blood. I can’t forget them, scorch them with fires, or dislodge them. You sit, but you’d suit a pedestal, one colossal, touching the sky. Arrogance suits you too, as your obnoxious personality forces me to face the ground. In this café, in front of many faces, I weep into the menu, and then look up at you.

You stir the coffee relentlessly; the swirl looks like a whirlpool where I could end my days on earth. It could consume me, and take me on a ride before I hit my demise, a rollercoaster ride through snapshots of misery. This misery has been created by my failed 20s. In your eyes, I should have been someone of power, a catalyst breaking boundaries, storming through cities spreading my optimism. But I’m here, sitting on tattered material, in a booth where many conservations have taken place, good and bad.

My coffee is cold, frozen to its core. My cluttered mind tries to assemble a cohesive story to tell you. Every word I try to meld crashes in my mouth before I can blurt them out. Words should be my weapon, but they’re succumbing to blank expressions. I look at my watch; the time seems to be slow today, and this engagement seems to be in slow motion. Your eyelids take time to open and shut, the bangle on your wrist clatters onto the table.

I’m awake to the clatter, looking straight into your disappointed eyes. You feel betrayed, beaten down, and I can’t mend these broken ties. I’ll collapse, I’ll grovel, tinker with your emotions, but I feel we’re lost in the static noise played out by the radio. You stand like a titan, struck by emptiness, misguided like me but a success story in your bubble. The expensive outfit you’re wearing costs more than my world, those shoes you wear shine more than diamonds, your composure is professional, and the lipstick strengthens your lips so when you kiss your husband at night, he feels them heavy on his cheek.

The café empties, and we’re the only ones left. No more prying eyes, no more ears to hear a dispute that is gaining volume. You’re now in your element, speaking above me, hurling words that sting me, offering nothing but a hazardous diction. Seeking calm isn’t practical, as the monster in you appears, feeding on my anxiety.

‘’You should have listened to me, but no, you went your own way, chose the wrong direction’’

The coffee has changed color, the milk has curdled, the ambience has altered, and this brightly lit café becomes a space damaged by your demanding vocal performance. Over behind the counter, the staff cringe and look on, bemused by the anger shown.

‘’Look at me’’

I don’t look, I can’t look. I feel humiliated by your abrupt behavior. The café nears closing time, and the lightning strikes the pavements outside, with thunder in the background, the thunder in your words louder. You then throw money at me and tell me to pay the bill. I stand up and move away from you, like everyone else has done over the years, and I don’t blame them, as they were right to disband from your ignorance. Years and years of strain, time and time again, you utter words, you mutter under the breath that god gave you. My childhood had no highlights, no structure, or significance.

So I pay the bill, brush off your existence, and leave.

Annihilation by Mark McConville

Flash Fiction, Mark McConville, Punk Noir Magazine


I run, I run away from the shackles of an empire built by you, a dictator of my dreams and my future. By escaping the clutches, I feel free in an instance, like a bird speeding through volatile winds, coming out the other end, unscathed. The feeling of trepidation dies, those echoes of your voice still embedded, but they will be stifled by my newly strong mind. Yes, these streets are frightening, on the cusp of bleeding, hemorrhaging out as the classless and free throw Molotov cocktails at the malevolent army who pride themselves on committing cardinal sins.

I amble amidst the bloodshed, checking my vital signs, my heart beats rapidly as it did back when I was running the marathon of my life, through forests, ravaged by fire. Those years have given me a thick skin. They empowered me to live in desolation and impoverishment. We skinned deer to stay alive, cooked it and ate without a uttering a word. You created a storm in me, a tornado of hate for myself, and on those nights when you ridiculed me, damaged me, cut me off from a world of possibilities, I despised you and your nicotine breath.

I’m kneel behind a beaten car, my hands blue, cold and dry. The threadbare jacket I’m wearing blows in the wind, it’s weightless, but covers my aching skin and scrawny body. I wait for a chance to move onward through a town weighed down by heavy storms, lackluster monuments which have been vandalized by hopeless children, years and years of mass corruption.

Moving forward takes intricacy and strategic planning. I shuffle over, jeopardizing my life, taking a stab into the tired light. This has to happen though, I have to make it, moments of clarity must prevail, or my optimism may shatter into fragments which may reform into a shard of negativity. They’ve now unleashed tanks onto the roads, they’ve roared into the next stage, readying their wrath of kill the remaining rebels who are only armed with weak weapons and undying desire.

What can I do now? Mop up the parts that have fallen, the blood that has spilled, the bones of courageous human beings. Or can I map out directions, a common plan? These mechanical enforcers will pull me apart, they’ll grind me down into dust which will spray into the relentless wind.

There’s not many of them left, they’re all dying horrendous deaths. I move again, this time into a house with no doors or windows. Everything is broken here, dolls with torn out eyes lay on the bedroom floor, pink wallpaper frayed, it seems to be a room where a little girl dreamt that her life would have been more straightforward than this. But, time has been ungodly, love has been wrapped up in blood soaked sheets and thrown into the fire.

As the chaos unravels, I sit hiding in the attic. I’m drawn to books and art. They’re all in bundles, these academic and fictional books. Books of power, books which contain truth, children books which alter worlds and stir imagination. And this attic consumes me as the guns and grenades pound through the streets, and into flesh and into hearts. Rather than listen, I put my hands over my ears, reading the same page repeatedly.

I hear thuds, bottle rockets and bombs. I hear whimpers, cries and lost souls teetering on the line of death, then eventually meeting their demise. It’s a crushing blow to the world, this war, this bloodshed. I’m in hiding, but I don’t feel safe, I feel feeble, defenseless, on the brink, losing my internal strength. All over the floor cracks show, cracks like my resolve.

Over on the wall there’s a mural of a girl chasing a red balloon. Her dress beautiful, her smile even infectious to me, as I smile. I smile at the times when the world wasn’t stuck in a game of chess. Beyond all of this, there are countries which don’t apprehend the greater good, they give and give, layering their landscapes with vitality and give their people hope.

Bright lights shine up through the cracks. My heart belts out for subtle touches. My innocence is in jeopardy. The whole world around me feels heavy on my head. I hear spoken words; I hear laughter.

‘’Nothing here, but these dolls’’

‘’They’re freaky aren’t they’’

‘’Demonic really’’

Through the speaker, a man tells the enemy to search the rest of the house. I drift into the closet and shut the door. Inside here, there are old knitted garments for young lives. I stand, not assured or even ready to defend myself. Behind me, there are wire coat hangers. I take one and twist it to make a weak weapon. It won’t stand up against their guns, but I must try.

Time elapses, and the voice becomes clearer. Through the little peep hole, I see a man wearing a patch on his jacket. It reads ‘’Annihilation’’. They just want to kill their way to victory.

I ready myself. I will be found, my restlessness will get me caught.

Slowly he moves forward, slowly he talks to himself in rituals.

And as he opens, I attack with all my strength, pushing the wire into his right eye. Blood splatters the florescent paper. As he falls, I grab his gun and shoot. He cascades into the depths of hell where he belongs.

The other man runs through and stands still. He goes to his knees and grovels.

I shoot him, he falls, and hell now has two.

Covered in blood, I hear a raucous sound from outside, voices of concern, dogs barking. Blood seeps through the cracks and onto the carpet below. Voices near close, voices grainy but alert, lights flash, red lasers pinpointed at the walls. This is anarchy, mayhem, war. It’s only a matter of time before I’m shot to pieces.

Cries deafen me. Flash grenades ring in my ears as they explode. People scream out for god to carry them through, they scream for this all to be a dream, a figment of their imaginations. Real life has been altered by lasting effects, minds have been inundated with snapshots portraying war at its most terrifying.

Sitting in a corner, I’m awaiting what will come my way. In this attic, books bind its cultural significance, books offer an escape route, and I wish to be transported into these worlds written by novelists who saw the world as a beacon of hope. Thinking like that may offer me a lifeline, a small sinew of solace.

The lights go out, the damage halts, the sound of inconsistent thunder stops. Quietness offers a subtle embrace until a crash, a reverberation, pounds all walls and broken palaces. I hear myriads of gunshots, piercing through skin, and then.

The quiet….

The solace….

An ally speaks,

‘’Take my arm, and I’ll carry you through’’


Six Poems by Mark McConville

Brit Grit, Mark McConville, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

PhotoFunia-1590832754Strange Times Indeed.

Battlegrounds everywhere

In a city smothered by hypocrisy and a death toll

The thin try to eat and the overweight become thin

Strange times indeed.


The slender arms of a child

Become weightless as she sleeps on her mother’s belly

This is unity in the most heartbreaking fashion

This is a mother crying as her baby begins to flinch

Nightmares burst into the mind.


Shredding the world into pieces

Might be the best way to eradicate the desolation

Burning it into scraps of charcoal as the animals scream

No one deserves this depravity, these aren’t degenerate people,

Shadows or rigid silhouettes, they’re breathing the same smoke as you,

Their hearts beat for a comforting smile and graceful hand from someone,

Not carrying burdens.


One dies, two cough and sputter,

Fear attacks the senses

Heaps of energy sapped from breaking bodies

The city’s teeth discolored by nicotine and its abdomen

Hungry for economy and a rebuild.


Disease roams like cattle,

Flowers decide to die, their vibrancy,

A figment of the imagination,

Color trapped in grey, houses crumbling,

Woodworm eating through the work of a carpenter,

Who gave his all too building beauty when beauty gleamed in

The eyes of strong people.


A Bell Rings In My Head.

A bell rings in my head

A realization that dreams are for the hungry

The driven, the artists, the readers,

And the weaver of words.


Emotions are high

I wish my name was in the sky

A banner of authority and truth

People would see it and cheer

For my disenchanted self.


The pavements laced in chewing gum

Offer me a route to the dark underworld

Where emotions are high

And people die of unnatural causes

They’re bound to each-other

Like they’re strapped to a leash

Dogs of winter, dogs of war.


The snowflakes are colossal reminders,

Of an incoming force

Winter beckons and these unruly children,

Become like wolves, scavengers.


Covered in a blanket of snow

A bell rings in my head

A realization that dreams are for the noble.

Die Loudly.

Broken glass reflects bloodied faces

Prayers are needed here

Hope trips the lights and is now engulfed in darkness

Dreamers disregard their chances of swapping this life for days in paradise.


Angels talk up this place, this land which has conformity,

They have sprinkled white magic all over books of truth

Books that explain to us why violence is fundamental

To staying alive in a world inconclusive.


There are people lost in disposition

Their love songs only play out in shoddy bars

Those angels come and go

Switching on the lights may let them in

At a blink of an eye, they’ll truthfully tell you if,

This is the end.


She’s next to you, flapping her hands,

You’re in her line of sight

Dropping glasses of dispirit all over the wooden floor

Speaking to the walls, wishing they’d tell that you’re allowed to,

Die loudly.


Mystified by your response to these paper-thin walls

She drags you aside, peppering you with optimistic monologues,

Of why you should live peacefully, aborting all poisons and,

All these memories which you conceal under the dome in your head.


The theater of wingless drunks

Is on its last order

You quickly consume with all your repose,

The last drink of the night.


Tear Drops On Cheeks As Pale As A Winter’s Day.

She’s stretching out for her mother

But her mother is caught up, tangled in a drunken daze,

Profoundly stuck in a loop of mundanity.


Oh God, she wishes, to stick to her mother again,

Wrapped up in the umbilical cord

A warming embrace when she’s born again

But we can’t be born again, we can’t relive the tender moments,

We grow up and try to make sense of the world.


She feels suffocated when her mother seems free

Singing karaoke in a local bar

Drinking spirits when her daughter is out of spirit

Drinking hops and barley, when a starving girl is,

Wasting away, barely hanging onto the teddy bear her late father,

Gave her.

‘Honey this is yours, hug it when you feel uninspired and when your mother is

Disconnected from you and the world’


The home is colder than a day in the snow

The electric blanket doesn’t heat the bones

The young girl splashes water on the face of her hungover mother

There’s no response, no anger or repent.


Flicking the switches in the kitchen

There’s no electricity surging through

Just a feeling of tension at the pit of a hungry stomach

A swollen cloud of black rain hovering over her

She wishes to tower over all of this

Create sparks and wishes, but magic isn’t,



The tap leaks dirty water,

The milk is sour in the fridge

The emptiness is gathering space

And hopelessness seems to darken the room

She’s powerless and her mother is shadow of her former self.


A ticking watch is all she has

Temptation to walk away is a potent feeling

In a young mind, pushed to grow up,

But she loves the woman sleeping away the haze.


Hazy Nights.

Screaming for solace

Inside a cage we call home

The lucky and free

Walk the streets with their heads held high

And their wallets bursting from the seams.


The room is a reminder of hazy nights

Grasping onto the t shirt of a lover

Who quickly departed with the aromas of sex?

Swirling around the stench of the ashtray.


The thick smoke of cigarettes

Shrouds beautiful faces

They’re there writing down tales

Of yesterday

While out of mind.


It’s exhausting

Looking at drunken eyes

Which flicker a hundred times

There’s no answers from the mouth of this,

Rebel who wishes for a better life.


And we sit amongst the disenchanted

In a small compartment in an apartment block

Someone is singing hopeful lyrics

From a song as sickening as a restless heartbeat.


This night is longer than most

The clock has stopped

People urge me to sleep

I can’t,

I can’t count sheep.


The Flicker Of Lighters.

Freedom seems miles off

As the rumbling of thunder in my mind

Becomes frequent.


I walk the streets

Trying to curve the strain of mixed emotions

Homeless women come to me

Asking for miracles when I need a miracle

They’re hungry, and desperate,

I have nothing to offer but memories

Of a bashful crash into a state of disrepair.


They leave me to walk

They rummage for thoughts

Taking drags of cigarette ends

And the dregs of a bottom of a bottle

Drunk unsophisticatedly.


Why should they stray into darkened voids?

And alleyways, undesirable territories,

Where masked strangers steal innocence,

And everything they’ve ever fought for.


I observe mass gatherings of people in despair

Drawn to the flicker of lighters

They’re certain to meet the end

No bright lights to guide them homeward.

Hotel Room Blues by Mark McConville

Flash Fiction, Mark McConville, Punk Noir Magazine

PhotoFunia-1590832754Hotel Room Blues…

Lifting the mood is this mundane hotel room would take effort. The sparkle in the beer has dissipated, and it has turned into a flat liquid. The curtains are shut to stave off the spies and onlookers. Those people are the fans and the disturbed, the maniacs and the fiends. Through time, these voices diminish, leaving a quiet, a silence so hurtful to the human mind, as demons appear as instigators. Meeting these visions could kill a heart, offloading them is an almighty task.

Stuck to the itchy sheets is a man developing thoughts in his blemished brain. A brain productive, but one that is overly melancholic. If you could pick it, you’d be thrown into a lion’s cage. A force to be reckoned with. It isn’t always a drug infused party in there; it is a bear pit. Blood trickles down the sides, fights break out, the heart of it owned by a queen of pain.

Guitars are layered up. Many of them played to their death. They’re vessels of sound, of bitterness, of chords, of blood. They keep the user sane enough to live, to walk, to dream. Over the course of the night, some are thrown off the walls, some are broken into intricate little pieces. But he’s not a fading artist. In this moment, he’s one of the most revered musicians, masterminding songs of dirty luck and teen spirit.

Smoke flurries through the noise. Paper notes are strewn everywhere. Lyrical bibles are open. The room is far from being holy. Ghosts are on the edges, phantoms ingrain the psyche. The walls aren’t fabricated, they’re paper-thin, and this useful music protector and innovator walks around in circles. His tongue is tied. His breathing fast, rapid at times, these walls are closing in and the blood surging through his body is curdling.

Injecting junk into his soul relieves this feeling of hopelessness. He’s lying next to his most beloved guitar, talking in tongues to himself. Diverting the noise of the interfering voices is impossible. He sees mannequins with black eyes transferring a power through the room. Little babies crawl across the ceiling, they’re demonic creatures, fastened to sadistic ways.

Under the bed. He can’t look under the bed. There will be something dark and vicious under there. The phantoms appear and gloat, their pretentious smirks and frightening tone of voice add to the atmosphere.

‘Go away, go away’ he says.

They carry on remarking and the pulsating power they have is ludicrous. The walls cascade like cards and this young man is confronted by a blonde girl. She’s attractive, and he’s saw her before. She carries a microphone and a guitar. He walks towards her but she crumbles into sand.

A screen, there’s a screen in the background. Within the screen, there is a crowd. They’re singing All Apologies at the top of their lungs.

Back in the room, the man opens his eyes. Standing there are two people close to him. One holding a bass guitar and the other holding drumsticks.

He’s groggy and shaky, but alive.


The Road – A Landmark Novel by Mark McConville

Mark McConville, Non-fiction, Punk Noir Magazine, Writing


The Road – A Landmark Novel.

When you think of masters of American literature, Cormac McCarthy pops up as a true contender. Within his works, stories bloom and portray struggle in the wilderness, the American outback where greed escalates and where cowboys try to survive life-threatening onslaughts. His books aren’t for the fainthearted either, they’re works of fearless fiction that bend normality and don’t adhere to rules. The pages are harsh, often controversial, and fully exert the notion to read on.

By bridging the gap between goodness and evil in his novels, McCarthy paints pictures of blood-soaked faces, revolt, rebellion, heartbreak, and fearlessness. He’s a master at this, a genius at spearheading realism in a fictional setting. Often, many writers can’t write like this. Often writers who try cannot place realism into their stories. Not all stories need that spine tingling narration, but when it’s done right, it is captivating.

Some readers may feel overwhelmed when they first read a McCarthy novel as they’re intricate, low paced, slower than your suspense novels. They’re deep filled though, they’re weighty, spontaneous, charged, and there are no flashy instances. Take The Crossing for example, a book which follows a wolf that kills cattle and other livestock. In this work, McCarthy describes the outback and the people like they have blood in their veins and hearts in their chests. But is there any other writer who can use simple techniques to create a piece of unconventional art like this, a story that should be tedious and lifeless? I don’t know if there is.

Picking up The Road by Cormac McCarthy is like giving your time and effort to a newborn child. It is a demanding read, one that is equally breathtaking and cathartic, born from a mind that is knife edged. Also, incredibly devised, The Road marked a grand return to bleakness for McCarthy too, a reoccurrence for the master of American tales. His other frantic novel, Old Country For Old Men, was a blockbuster, and The Road is no different.

The novel follows a man and his son through sprawling apocalyptic America. An American landscape, brimming with scavengers and looters, people hell bent on causing chaos to survive. This chaos erupts at points in the novel, as the man must stave off the enemies who want to capture his son. The man will do anything to keep the boy safe, he’ll grit his teeth, he will pulverize who comes in his way, and he’ll follow the road which may take them to safety.

But, are these two survivalists don’t know what’s up ahead. In their dreams, they think life may be worth living, but we know as the readers, that when an apocalypse hits, life drains rapidly. Armageddon has overthrown every morsel of reason, every piece of salvation, and the man and boy are stuck in a whirlpool of constant dispirit and broken luck.

By walking down the notorious road, they run into obstacles, wild animals, and unpredictable terrains. And this is all captured in McCarthy’s powerful prose, his compelling writing. Writing that takes your breath away, a style which has been strategically worked upon. Through and through, the diction is flawless, captivating and original, marking the road as a stellar piece of literature.

It’s also the bond of these two characters that embeds emotion and grips the attention. They talk, they smile, they clasp hands, and they argue. These are all the traits of a typical father and son relationship, and McCarthy has woven it into his tour de force majestically. And at points, poignant moments are scattered in the pages, moments where realism studs the inner core of sadness. For example, there is when the man and boy find an old drinks machine, one filled with old cans of coca cola. The man eventually breaks open the machine and hands his son the beverage, and as the boy drinks it he falls in love with a taste he hasn’t experienced before. In this simple embrace, this tender instance, the story takes a stab at realism in such a moving way.

The Road is a melancholic piece of work, one which showcases McCarthy at his unnerving best. He notably adjusts his writing style in some places, but we all know it’s him pulling the strings. By weaving prose of wonderment, segments of genius, the American wordsmith deserves praise. His work, through 12 novels, should be acknowledged more so than it has been. Being the underdog suits McCarthy anyway as he is never in the limelight, he scorns interviews, and lives a sheltered life.

After The Road was published McCarthy received the coveted Pulitzer Prize in literature, an accolade some writers dream of winning. This is deserved, as The Road is undoubtedly his most accomplished novel.

The Road.