“Down this road on a summer day in 1944, the soldiers came. Nobody lives here now. They stayed only a few hours. When they had gone, a community, which had lived for a thousand years, was dead. This is Oradour-sur-Glane, in France. The day the soldiers came, the people were gathered together. The men were taken to garages and barns, the women and children were led down this road, and they were driven into this church. Here, they heard the firing as their men were shot. Then they were killed too. A few weeks later, many of those who had done the killing were themselves dead, in battle. They...

Beneath the uniforms, costumes of power or the suits of fashionable exuberance lurks naked flesh. Often flabby and unimpressive. The victims of such know the putrid stench on their breath, the sickly odour of sweat, the repulsive effluent of discharge as it penetrates where it’s unwanted. The predators are human. Nothing more. Government, wealth and ‘the system’ suggest otherwise. To their victims, whose bodies quiver in innocent disdain, blood running from where they have been stabbed, there is seldom justice. Wealth, power ensures such. When an individual man, the unexceptional, pins and...

It’s hard to enjoy the writings of Franz Kafka, though in some of his story telling we find a reflection of the contemporary or perhaps a dirty glass panel into the past. In his book, The Trial, we experience a bureaucracy of inhumanity through the eyes of an unnamed man. He is arrested and prosecuted for an unspecified crime, taken on a journey where he has no rights or agency and is one in many victims of an oppressive system. To live in a world where one does not know or understand the law, and where the layers of administration are so great one is not even considered human, no longer...

“Don’t be mean, we don’t have to be mean, coz remember, no matter where you go, there you are,” said Buckaroo Banzai as he stood on stage with his band of as multi-faceted men. The Hong Kong Cavaliers. Buckaroo, the scientist, surgeon, rock star, comic book character among other things, above all else, a hero. Champion for the human race, even as two rival alien empires battle one another. Earth a weak proxy in such a struggle, the ‘ally’ aliens are not good, rather less evil and see us humans as useful, a malleable race to manipulate and threaten into helping them with their war. Despite...

Greg was irate. It had been the second time in a week he had been cut off like that. His car recovered from the swerve, the offending gaggle of cyclists barely paid him notice. He pulled into a nearby service station, checked his tyre. All seemed alright. “Those pricks think they own the roads,” he said loud enough for a nearby man to hear. “Yep, like a plague.” The men agreed while others looked past their conversation including two Lycra clad bike riders who looked Greg up and down as he entered the service station. A pair of police officers were entering as he was leaving, Greg nodded and...

He stood composed, the wind pushed him. The trees waved and leaned above and around. Clouds considered rain, though retained a deep grey. Birds, breeze and his own breathing a convalescence of harmony. He was alone. Standing as if on a horse, the ancient position tested his legs. If his eyes were closed, he could see. When open, he saw nothing. With each breath, he wandered free of thoughts. No mind, no past, no future on the presence of the present. With each, breath, breathe, breath, breathing, breath. Only a Now. Anger, rage, it boiled and simmered. Concealed beneath the skin of formality...