I am an award winning writer & performer working uniquely across literary fiction, journalism, screen, and stage.

I hope you enjoy my offerings.

Donald, come home...

The doors close on the presidential suite; the stench of settling Moet thrown back at him as they seal shut for the night. For a moment Donald stands. Hands grip handles, and the creature takes it all in. The day, and the motions of it. The future, and the motions of it. His past, which even the man himself finds too implausible to believe.

He breaths, and then flattens his tie down a few times. Petting it. Like one would a restless cat.

Of course he soon realises that there is no need to flatten ties. They are just ties. He struggles with the pin, the pin that shackles him to his own neck line. It is seized with saliva; in the ridge of the small, ballpoint screws are clotted foundation flakes, and the odd ball of lint harvested from the heavy days well wishing pecks.

It takes some time, and every second counts to the president? but eventually, it loosens, and he pushes the collar with a thumb and a forefinger, both of which tire fast - a day of speech making takes it toll. A shirt from his own collection, Donald muses. Super starch, super cotton, super cut. Just enough gut for the gut,  and just enough give for an ever unfolding neck, though a neck forever held behind the aforementioned tie, and the aforementioned pin. What was it the man was trying to restrain? What did these layers of formal incarceration offer to the man with everything?

Melania had disappeared the moment she got in; walking calmly, though quick, to her own quarters. She had closed the doors with the same silent grace that had been maintained for the best part of twenty four hours. This silence had begun when the politics had begun. In this world she was but infant. A trophy. The dresses were too tight, tighter than she was used to. All woollen, and regulated and sterilised. The personnel were also too dry; conversation was stunted academic. Both of them had not belonged before, but now everything seemed all the more alien. 

All in all, Melania spent her days in silence, before a screen, or a mirror, or herself.

By the time it was time, time for their nightly ceremony, Trump was already stripped down and swaddled in a robe. White cotton, initials gilded across the breast, which now sagged under the weight of his liberal breast. 

He looked at himself in the bathroom wall. Adjusted the hair.

Using his fingers, Donald stretched the skin of his face across the canvas of his hand. With a pained sigh, he hooked his eye lid back on itself,  probing a finger deep inside the cavity. Trump Pulled back.  Like spent gum, he watched as his own eye stretched out in front, where he held it in place, and strained to get a glimpse into the socket.

The time had come. They moved into the central atrium, the central living space. Four sofas; gold striped affairs, very presidential, very dignified, though the same set that had haunted the place for some time. Used and abused by generations of power. Trump looked his wife in the eyes, though nothing ever seemed to get beyond her lashes, which were not as false as one might think. Not anymore. Not since she was a teen.

The first lady eyed the husband she barely knew. Repulsive, she thought, as she moved toward him. 

"Will you help me, baby?" He asked her, affecting a strange, natal quality.

The woman dimly nodded, eyes to the floor. Her feet shifted along the carpet, still bound in tight, blue suede. Heels speared by a three inch elevation. 

Years ago, even months, she would have been allowed to drink, entertain, go to clubs, snort, socialise, enjoy the fruits of celebrity. Today, however, and this was all they could find for themselves within the palace of the western world. 
Melania first took his eyelid, and peeled it back. Then she removed the hair, and then the face, and finally, took up the stretch of flesh they called the neck. Bracing her feet in a divot, she pulled until the man's form limped away from itself, layer by layer. The robe fell in a heap on one side, and Melania compiled her own of flesh on the other. Her husbands flesh, as fake as his performance throughout the day.

What was left on the royal blue rug, inside a pair of patent leather shoes ten sized too big, was a mound of worms. Small, pale, and exhausted from the days proceedings. They writhed among themselves; expanding to full size, stretching its long, compressed muscles. The mound grew and grew in volume. More emerged from the shadow of others, until several hundred of them seemed to crawl about the presidential suite. Melania stood in silence for sometime, allowing their wet noise to take the air. 

She turned on the television. More images of a day she had  only just lived. A worm - just one of her husbands - had made it's way toward her. Perhaps some cry for help, or cry for lust, or simply a base reaction to the vibrations pulsing from the television set. 

The woman lifted her heel, and slowly pushed it into the neck of the worm. Against the royal blue of the white house rug, no blood would be ever really be noticeable.

See me live....My Pain Is Better Than Your Pain

Hear me recorded....Digital Millenial: Radio Four

Digressions #1

Procrastination Station #7