The Falling Sky

Sylvester stood at the side of the square, amongst the throngs of people. He watched a man carrying a briefcase, hurrying along. Sylvester quickened his pace and caught up with the man, and whilst marching side by side asked him if he could just stop him a moment and explain something to him. The man, continuing to rush along explained that he was “most busy” and had no time to spare.

“No time to spare” pondered Sylvester. How strange that a man so efficient as to rush everywhere had no time to spare? He decided it was best to change tact and he noticed a young woman sitting peacefully on a bench, as though she had all the time in the world. He walked over and took a seat next to her, and she looked up with a furrowed brow, suggesting she was uncomfortable in the presence of her new found companion.

“Excuse me, may I just speak with you for a second” enquired Sylvester in his polite tone. The woman reached down for her bag, picked it up and then left, condemning Sylvester with a withering glance as he walked away. He watched as she took up a seat on an unoccupied bench across the square and continued to glare at Sylvester as though he had wronged her somehow.
Sylvester regrouped and turned around to see a jovial man casually strolling along and laughing. He called out to the man.

“Excuse me, have you got a minute?”

The man shook his head and gestured that he was speaking on his mobile telephone. Sylvester slumped back into the bench, saddened by the fact that nobody had been able to allow him the time to warn them. He looked up at the dark sky, and noted that the eyes of all the masses of people scurrying through the square were pointed directly in front of them, watching where they were going, and navigating through the bodies.

He looked out across the landscape in front of him. The birds were no longer singing in the branches, though the flower beds by the monument were vibrant and alive, perhaps more so than ever. The trees swayed in their constant vigil, watching over those who marched below them.

A few feet away he noticed an old man, a wrinkled and bald artist, stood behind his easel, also looking up at the sky. He was taking great care to match the colours on his canvas to those he was seeing above him. A sudden calm fell over Sylvester as he watched, the patience and attentiveness of the old man soothed him.

The painter mopped his brow and smiled at Sylvester, then came to sit next to him on the bench.

“You know, I tried to warn them that the sky was falling, that the clouds had burst into flames but...” Sylvester started with despair.

The old man nodded and smiled.

“But they have more important things to attend to?” he grinned.


- A first draft of a short story I am currently working on.

©2009 Copyright Daniel J. Fiasco

La Petite Mort

Sweet murderer return, and poison my senses again
Race me to expiration,
Astride this chariot of the waves,
Hurtling as one towards the end.

A war in which victory comes, but is not sought
The bodies breathe heavy,
Ah, la petite mort!


- a short poem, submitted to a poetry contest for women. I was excluded on several grounds, not least, that of being male. Poetry competitions are a pet hate of mine.


©2009 Copyright Daniel J. Fiasco

The Perverse Artist

In the rising light of the morning The Councillor and his bailiffs walked in to the studio of Heinrich Neiting, The Perverse Artist, and began to seize his work. The Perverse Artist stood in the corner of his naturally lit studio, fascinated by the authoritative stance of the official, and his struggle to avoid making eye contact with any of the paintings laid around the room.

Heinrich positioned himself in front of his current piece, “The Rose of Lucia”, an elegant nude portrait of his favourite model, laid playfully in the rose garden at the memorial park. As the room gradually cleared of it’s two dimensional guests Heinrich grew amused by the failure of the Councillor to
address him.

The two roughly shod bailiffs cackled and made lewd remarks between themselves as they removed the offensive pictures from the walls, but the Councillor kept his head down and scribbled furiously in his notebook. Only when the room was clear, except for Heinrich and “Lucia”, did the Councillor speak.

“Mr Neiting, if you would step aside, there is one last obscenity to be destroyed.”

“Now, how do you know it’s an obscenity when you have never seen it Councillor?”

The Councillor was taken aback by Heinrich’s playful question.
He shuffled uncomfortably, glancing over his shoulder to check if the bailiffs had come back into the room.

“Mr Neiting, you are a perverse artist, and your works serve no purpose other than to corrupt those unfortunate enough to set eyes upon them.”

Heinrich strolled to the other side of the room and bit his lip, exposing his masterpiece to his intruders. He curiously watched the eyes of the councillor widen as he saw for the first time the porcelain face of Lucia. Her graceful neck and delicate breast, and most strikingly the velvet skin of Lucia’s thighs, spread wide open to reveal a scarlet long stem rose carefully painted in place of her sex.

“Tell me Mr Councillor, are you now corrupted?”

The councillor signalled to his two subordinates to arrest the painting and destroy it as they had the others. The Councillor turned to leave.

“If I hear of any more such pieces I will return and destroy them also, as I did the others before these. Good day Mr Neiting.”

Heinrich strode into the doorway and blocked the Councillors path.

“Her flesh is much softer than I could ever convey with oils Councillor. You should see her in person. She is the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. What do you think?”

The councillor’s face betrayed a panic that his authority could not endure.

“I think. I think that maybe it is not just your work that is perverse Mr Neiting. If I hear such vulgarity from you again then I shall have no choice but to report to my superiors that you are a highly corrupt man and it is no longer safe for you to remain at large in the community.”

“Mr Councillor, does all that Authority ever strike you as more perverse than a simple man painting what he considers beauty? You know, some may consider it corrupt that you see the things that you censor other people from seeing? “

The Perverse Artist smiled and stepped aside, and the Councillor stormed out of the room.


- A short fiction piece regarding an artist whose work is not valued by the state.


©2009 Copyright Daniel J. Fiasco

The Final Writings of Arthur Samuels

“I was born, and I followed the path.

Then one day I plunged myself into the darkness, I submerged myself in the opaque waters of human existence, destined to either find the answer I needed, or hopelessly drown in the process. I burst through the surface, desperate for breath, having failed on both counts. But, that’s not to say there won’t ever be a day when the water subsides and leaves behind the glowing pearl of wisdom I was looking for. I’d even wager that from time to time I’ll go back there, and seek again what evaded me that day, but it would take a moment of immense clarity, not to mention coincidence, for me to stumble upon what has been lost for so long.

All the while, time marches on, my own existence ebbs and burns brightly towards it’s end, and I must use the light to keep the night at bay. It’s time to be selfish, to saturate my sensory fibres with pleasure.

I shall try and flood my mind with experience and knowledge, and to temper my own vibrant steel in compassion for other people.

Without a higher meaning, I revert to the things that distract me the most. If I stop occupying myself, or fail to numb my mind with ecstasy it will turn in on itself again, and I will be combing through mud searching for that elusive answer.

It can’t be said that I am melancholy, for I am truly awake with joy when I am in the company of those I admire, or when luck should deposit me in the arms of a lover, I am distracted to the point of oblivion.

I don’t wish to die. I wish to live as much as possible in the time I am allotted, safe in the idea that I can find pleasure, if not meaning in this most grave predicament. My legacy is dust, as is yours, but in all dust and debris there is a great story, which exists even if nobody takes time to listen.

Please, don’t ask me the meaning of our being. I looked, high and low, and with a wry smile I realised that it was a great trick, a proud practical joke on us all that one day we would evolve so highly as to understand there was really no need for us to evolve at all. But without laughter, all are days are dark, and so I salute you silent joker, and my pen shall fall silent. “

- Short fiction piece about a writer's resignation.


©2009 Copyright Daniel J. Fiasco

"Love"

Anointed with a liquor
Not of this earth
I have grown much younger now
Pain doesn’t hurt
And all of those wishes
That you were scared might come true
I have revealed them all
And I will bring them to you

Spread your wings for me
Take flight and dance with me

For now I am become Love
Destroyer of Hearts
And I am the one you’ll love
‘Til death do us part
I live within you now
We’re breathing as one
We’ll burn with the radiance of
One thousand suns

And now as I feel your skin
Pressed against mine
I wash down the sin
With your beautiful wine
Now awaken your senses
I will conquer them slow
Your touch, your taste
Your scent, you have to promise them all

I have always been kind
But now I am cruel
Love is a union
but it’s also a duel
I will set you free
I will bind you in chains
I am your master
But I am also your slave


- lyrics to the song "Love", inspired in part by J. Robert Oppenheimer's supposed reinterpretation of the Bhagavad Gita upon watching the first atomic bomb detonate on Hiroshima.



©2009 Copyright Daniel J. Fiasco

Dewdrop Phantasm

Dewdrop Phantasm

There is no right to life.

It is a curious and beautiful gift we don’t yet understand.

We are on borrowed time, and that is perhaps the most majestic hourglass you can ever see.

Tomorrow is a vast fallacy, even the next second is in doubt. But in the arms of rapture and euphoria tomorrow is unnecessary.

If another day dawns then I shall be blessed again with a new life, a fresh adventure, but if the universe fractures into shards we will neither miss it or be missed.

When embalmed with darkness and hatred I too feel like my bones are on fire inside my skin and the hours are pain filled and bleak, but the darkness can be dispelled with practice, as it comes from within. Live past it. Shed your charred and crippled skin and grow anew from the ash.

Hope that when you turn to dust you will have left behind an inspiration to all that is good.

Swim in the sublime, and show others the way.

Let desire be kept separate from requirement.

Cherish those whom you love, but don’t burden them with dependence.

Never stop searching for that dewdrop phantasm of pure and distilled ecstasy. If you find it, share it with those who are thirsty and open to it. Pass it around like the liquor of life.

- A poem I wrote for the short film "Dewdrop Phantasm", which is currently in post production.

©2009 Copyright Daniel J. Fiasco