Fletcher Dubois's Page

Smells from the kitchen invited growls from his belly. He turned his head and yelled vague impatience in the direction of his wife, who was used to an ungrateful attitude and simply ignored the noise. She slowly stirred the risotto, savouring the rich aroma of her cooking, and thought about divorce.
Discontent had been in her bones for a long time, but she hadn't acknowledged her real feelings until now. Clamping her eyelids shut, she could feel every fibre of her taut and trembling flesh. She t… Continue

One can conceive of many reasons for absence from six. Maybe the unglittering necessity of gritted teeth and overtime soul-whoring forces your hand, when financial reality bites with ugly yellow fangs. Perhaps hitting the studio after weeks of intensive preparation to spill unfashionably-passionate punk rock guts on record could take temporary hostage of creative energy. Imagine simpler obstacles – like when a laptop, freshly-beyond-warranty, gives up the ghost, cackling malevolently to itself a… Continue

My sister just had a son. A beautiful baby boy. He is the most amazing child: huge, hairy, sleepy, quiet, and today, for the first time, I nursed him, changed him (twice), bottle fed him and prammed him to sleep, and loved his precious tiny heart like I would burst apart inside if I could make him normal, but he isn’t. There were statistically unlikely unblameable unforeseeable complications. For the first time in years - I weep giant tears as I type this. Their god deserves a punch in the fucki… Continue

The black dog relaxes with his back to the sun, his tail at a low-tempo swish. His blue-hued opponent is hunched over the board, whiskers dancing as she peruses the pattern of the pieces. To their right, two-tone upon the toasted grass, lie the discarded families of the fallen. I smell sulphur, says Danny, nonchalant, as he moves a pawn into place. Men are deceiving themselves again, replied his feline friend, glancing at the sky. Overhead, bomb doors swing open.

Phil woke cursing the noise, groaning, sweaty, slapping off the alarm and reaching for pills to drown the ache. He washed them down with the dregs of last night’s wine and swung his fat legs out of bed.

He hated ringing people up to sell them crap they didn’t want, or need, and the people he rang, most often, hated him for doing it – but the news these days was always full of job cuts this, depression that, homes repossessed, and he was afraid he was stuck now after seven unambitious years. Dri… Continue