David McGuire

4 of 44

blogs@interney.net (David McGuire) — Sat, 14 Mar 2009 10:55:17 GMT

Time has come to move these stories to another format; the printed word. I have decided to leave 4 of the the 44 stories here as a way of keeping my words out there in the cyber-sphere, as both proof and promotion.

However, the other 40 stories will again be available in printed form at some time in the near future. Who knows, maybe there will be some new ones added to entice those who stayed with me and read them all.

Here you will find the first two stories, followed by two random selections.

Thanks for reading and hopefully we will meet again either in Foreigners or some other form.

David McGuire

Ofertas: Sony Cyber-shot DSC-W120, Sony Cyber-shot DSC-W150, Sony Cyber-shot DSC-T77

and the ground will come

blogs@interney.net (David McGuire) — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 22:42:47 GMT

Watching this leaf fall, I wonder why it has broken from its branch high up in this breezeless sky. Green it falls, but this should not be.

It should be crimson like a rusted bird falling from a wire.

Yellow like some doomed Apollo, or orange like a shard from the sun.

A single wing trying to fly without muscle or body to actually propel it, it beautifully tumbles, rolls and spirals and I hope the ground never comes.

Ofertas: Victoria�s Secret BODY LOTION , Victoria�s Secret Body Splash, Calvin Klein Be

morning weather report

blogs@interney.net (David McGuire) — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 22:20:15 GMT

Here turned out the clouds bucketfuls of rain. It occurred during the night, like a soundtrack of static to the city's dreams.

A long reflective strip of rainwater shines in the gutter upon the level street. It resembles mercury, unable or unwilling to flow or be absorbed. The sun greyed asphalt is now dark, as though freshly laid, with moisture evaporating into the bright morning sky. However, no smell of tar lingers in the air, for it is the same surface as before, a long ragged tongue of ingenuity. I just stand staring at the vapours of water rising and take a deep breath.

"Another lovely morning," says a familiar tone. A shaggy black dog sniffs at my ankles, then raises its head and I see its two black onyx eyes shining back at me while a tail wags lazily behind.

"It is indeed," I respond, lowering my hand to let the dog sniff it. "Hello Boy," I say.

He's in his late sixties I would guess. It's always along this street in the morning that we cross paths, and that is the limit of our acquaintance. My departure from the flat is met by this man on his morning walk, though I'm not aware of this being a conscious factor in why I leave the flat when I do. "You've got the right kind companionship for such a fine morning as this," I offer.

"That I have," he replies and then he looks down at Boy. I see adoration in his eyes. His face is pale, thin and old but still expresses joy. "It should warm up nicely today," he says, now looking at me.

"Well, it's a day not to be rushed," I say, thinking of my lack of a concrete plan and the over-riding desire to take it easy. "I hope he's not up for a run in the home stretch." It's obvious neither of them are, for the dog is as old as he is if one applies the relevant maths.

"No, no. We mosey along at our pace." He smiles a little more, gives off a little laugh.

"I could do with a few more of these mornings," I mention harmlessly

"Let's hope for it, but I'll take it as it comes," he says.

"Well, this time of year the odds are good." I pat Boy again for a moment in the ensuing silence. "I shouldn't keep you two from your leisure." I smile and feel calmed.

"Right then. See you tomorrow," he says to me. "Come on Boy," he says to the dog.

We part as we have each morning we've met in this way. He continues on his way and I go in the other direction towards where he has just come from. After a few strides, I always look back and watch them walk away. To see his figure diminished and shrunken from the fitted size of the light spring jacket he wears. His shoulders less broad than they once might have been. His arms seeming to have been drawn up into their sleeves so that the cuffs now reach the middle knuckles of his hands. His head is topped with what I know to be called a bunnet, a soft flat cap. The lead is never pulled tight and they just carry on.

The conversation varies little from this script, and I don't even know his name. Though there is no need for more really. It's enough to lift my spirits. It's simply bliss.

Ofertas: Canon PowerShot SX10 IS, Oakley Monster Dog, Ferrari Black, Moving Motor Light C710

carry on

blogs@interney.net (David McGuire) — Sun, 02 Dec 2007 14:14:14 GMT

Deafened by the roar of the constant acceleration required to keep us airborne, I sit with little in my case and, some might say, too little in my pockets. From the window, I see vast clouds and the immense bow of the horizon below. There is nothing to do now but wait for the landing and the sprawl of steel, glass and concrete that will greet me, then reprocess me from this momentary respite.

I've left Pearson International in Toronto and its airport code lingers like a nagging question, 'Y?'. Then again in plural, 'YZ?', for surely there are many reasons for leaving. I then scribble 'Y?' and the answer 'YZ', onto a napkin, for maybe change is reason enough. Although I'm fully aware that choosing to go may actually have been unYZ.

Argentina, or should I specifically state that an unknown room behind an unknown door in Buenos Aires, is my destination. I will touch ground at Ezeiza International airport and I grin at the EZE in which the decision was made.

Sitting back into my seat I finish my complimentary whisky then adjust the miniature blanket, which smells of an encounter with machinery, to cover my naked forearms from the thin cold cabin air. The airship soars through the sky at 667 miles an hour. Its bulk shudders as though its wings were colliding with angels.

Ofertas: Canon PowerShot SX10 IS, MP4 Touch Screen Touch 8GB, Nike Air Max, Touch 16 GB

a departure

blogs@interney.net (David McGuire) — Tue, 27 Nov 2007 01:24:27 GMT

A handful of flies buzz around me like curious black rain. The dusty stream of light colours me old as canyons of time expose themselves, their shadowy knife edge folds unbreaking my skin. I sit alone, staring at nothing, thinking of even less; caught in that gap between daydream and reality. My apartment cell is dusky and barren, the couch a great stranded ship in the middle of the hardwood ocean floor. The television sits vacant flanked by two sturdy speakers that say nothing. At the base of the chair in which I sit is a strewn heap of photos, the remains of my late night search for lost memories, for evidence to prove that I have been.

I am drawn from the chair and my dream like state by church spire chimes of passing time. Walking out to the balcony, I look down upon the grainy hopelessness of this beat dead world, and observe with disinterest the ant like bustle of those below. This city often reminds me of my childhood abode, with its dusty corners, rickety forgotten places now infested, and routes that cut through their over-thought proximities, worn and weary. With evening fantastically consuming the sky in what I can only describe as a deepening shade of blue, my eyes capture the amber ember called Moon, which hovers and I swoon.

With reluctance I return from the balcony and close the door which sighs as it slides. Lifting a jacket from the back of the chair, I discover an unfinished cup of tea upon the floor. Consuming what remains, I feel the cold beverage rush to the bottom of my stomach.

Once in the hallway and with the apartment door seemingly secured, I walk toward the elevator as only an echo, each sound resounding between the walls as though liquid. Habitually, I ride to the third floor, emerge from the elevator, stroll down the hallway and egress via the fire exit. All this to avoid the lobby with its adjoining lounge where a strange socialless group sits near motionless, with blank stares for everyone passing their room of contentedness; never conversation, just cold contemplation. Reaching the fire escape, I descend the staircase with a clung, clung, clung of feet upon its pocked and moulded surfaces. The craggy, lunar, nighttime alley is a street of solitude lined with decaying storage huts and wooden fences, their faces peeling. My rattly chariot waits for turn-key; it gives its guttural purr of imperfection.

Bouncing elastic over the sinuous back street I eventually converge with the roadway where I pulse pneumatic along the city's black veins, the buildings passing like yesterdays of today. Humming, thumbing queens hang out on donut house corners of lust in tight tatters and fur collars, peddling their after-dinner wares. Beyond building loom and construing business types, almost invisible behind towering shop signs is the old cathedral, a nighttime ghost illuminated by two skyward lamps of moon glow. The road bends with great, lazy highway curves that sweep around the monastic fallacy toward the unattainable horizon.

A transport grumbles past the side window to my right. I see pink snouts twitching from the perforated, metallic walls, then the holocaust box fades ahead into the breezy night. Lane markers fly by like b-movie bullets and I veer onto an off-ramp which bends a great licorice bend and delivers me on.

Ofertas: Canon PowerShot SX10 IS, Ferrari Black, Moving Motor Light C710, Street Fighter 4