Gertrude Stein has a very peculiar style – full of repeated words, odd punctuation and an apparent lack of sense. Her writing seems to concentrate more on the sound of words, rather than their meaning. Here is my attempt.


My Collector


My collector with his bags.

            My collector with his bags.

            His bags his bags his bags his bag, collecting.

            On the pavement in the woods on the grass in the mud on a plant in the garden.

            On the low trunk of a tree, collecting.

            Collecting collecting with his bags his bags his bags.

            Collecting. My collector. Collects.

            The wind.

            My face.

            Smells all around.


            Smells smells smells smells smells, glorious smells. All around.

            I sniff the smells. I lick them. All the smells. Smell the smells the smells smell.

            And then I piss on them.

            Piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss.

            I piss on all the smells. I’m running! Running I’m alive. It’s wild. Running wildly wildly running wild run run wild.

            And I stop and I crouch. And he waits. With his bag.

The wind. More smells.





My collector collects his collection in his bags.

I’m a good boy.





The following piece is an attempt at flash-fiction, or short-fiction. Sometimes called smoke-long, the idea is basically to write a really, really short story! The brief for this piece was simple – it had to last 50 words. Exactly!


Creme Egg


“This isn’t a creme egg,” he said, holding a creme egg. “It’s a bomb.”

                Nobody moved.

                In the corner, the librarian made a run for it.

                “Don’t make me do this,” he warned, both hands twitching.

                The librarian stopped as he began to unwrap the egg.

                “No!” she screamed.