White Rabbit Story - May 2025

 Rear-view

There was a time many years ago, when I was still searching for some kind of purpose in my life, that I'd often drive long distances late at night. Coasting along in the darkness with no direction in mind. Letting the world and the darkness pass over and through me as I travelled unfamiliar routes and weird little side roads.

Sometimes, if there was no other traffic and the road was long and straight, I'd switch off my headlights and think about nothing. Close my eyes and see how long it took me before the nothing became a something and the fear and the panic kicked in to make me open them again. It always took longer than I expected. 

Those moments - eyes pressed shut, hands gripping the wheel, the blacktop hymn of rubber tyres on Tarmac throbbing too-loud in my ears - felt holy somehow, as if I was nearing some kind of grace note in the ongoing symphony of my life. 

My little journeys into the Greater Darkness, as I thought of them, served a purpose, but I was never sure what it was. Afterwards, I'd feel richer, more alive; a fuller person than before. Mouth dry. Palms sweaty. Legs cramping. Strange images were burnt onto the back of my eyes: bleached white animal shapes, the silhouette of a solitary dancing figure, a spinning black hole like a whirlpool inside my head.

The experience was overwhelming in its purity.

Last night I did it again.

For the first time in decades.

When I opened my eyes, there was blood on my windscreen. I had not felt an impact; the ride had been smooth and quiet as I coasted along the empty night-time motorway. The blood was smeared; it ran slowly down the glass like thickened rain. I didn't dare look in the rearview mirror to see what lay behind me.

 © Gary McMahon, 2025

White Rabbit Story - April 2025

 

The Geology of Chance

 

Once he had been stone but now, he was flesh. He had no memory of the transformation, of moving from one state to another; just a sense of having been inert, solid, for centuries.

This pliant new body moved with ease, if not grace – not yet. He slithered on his belly along the dry riverbed and then up the bank, slowly rising to his unfamiliar feet as he approached the tree line. His legs ached, the muscles quivering. He flexed his fists as he walked, feeling the hidden strength of the bones in his hands.

It would do, this body. It would suffice.

          Birds sang; small land animals darted through the ferns and the between exposed roots of trees. Insects shimmered in the sunlight, rare jewels to be prized but never taken.

          He walked deeper into the dense forest, enjoying the shade, looking up to see the sunlight making bright patterns in the dripping canopy above. The sounds, the smells, the sights…all were new to him in this form.

          After what seemed like a long time, he came to a small clearing. A single large rock sat at its centre. He approached the rock and stood before it, caressing its cold surface with open hands and an open heart. He thought about how long he had sat there, half buried in the earth, and how it felt to be free – to be able to move from place to place, point to point, and never have to be immobile again.

          How it felt to be able to leave.

          The rock twitched.

He smiled.

          He felt some of his lifeforce leaving his body, flowing into the rock.

          The rock turned, squirmed, and sat up, unfolding long limbs and a slender torso. Stretching upwards, reaching towards the light, she smiled and nodded in greeting.

He took her hand. It was warm; so much warmer than stone.

Together they walked deeper into the rainforest in search of their children.

© Gary McMahon, 2025

White Rabbit Story - March 2025.

Let's Pretend

South Shields is a coastal town in the north east of England. There is a street there renowned for its Indian Restaurants. Ocean Road, it’s called. The locals are proud of this street – it has been at the centre of Indian cuisine in the area for decades.

Let’s pretend there is a small, nondescript restaurant half way along a side street off Ocean Road that nobody can ever tell you the name of. This is either because the name changes too often, or perhaps it simply doesn’t have one. The place is rarely open; its hours are random and unknowable. I don’t know anybody who claims to have eaten there.

Let us agree, you and I, that at the rear of this restaurant there is a small cobbled yard, enclosed by high walls topped with daggers of broken glass set in concrete – an outdated, and now illegal, security method.

Let’s also imagine that the yard is full of fly-tipped rubbish: old, damaged furniture, obsolete-model television sets with their screens smashed in, rusting bicycle frames, mysterious tools with vital parts missing. The detritus forms a loose circle, almost a barrier, and at its centre there lies a dirty mattress covered in dark stains.

Something else to consider; another little flight of fancy:

At night, the mattress moves. It gently inflates, then deflates with a regular rhythm, and if one were to lean in close, one might hear what could be described as the sound of air passing through clogged pipes. If one were to examine the mattress closely, it might be said to have a peculiar shape: like that of a giant human lung.

I’ve heard that one night many years ago, a homeless man somehow managed to enter the yard. He lay down on the mattress to rest. He wasn’t there the next morning, and the stains on the mattress were darker, and wet. One of them resembled a bearded face, not unlike the mark on the famous shroud of Turin.

This is what I’ve heard, but I don’t like to listen to rumours.

Stories like that can get a person in trouble.

The guy who told me this story hasn’t been seen for sixteen months. I’d like to pretend there isn’t a new, somewhat familiar stain on that mattress, but I’m willing to bet there is.

Not that I’m prepared to go and look.

Oh, no, not me.

Not that.

It’s enough for me to walk past that glass-topped wall, listening to the sound like phlegmy breathing that comes from the other side. Keep on walking; never stop. Wishing that sixteen months ago my brother hadn’t told me what he suspected. Hoping that he didn’t really see it for himself. Imagining that he’s safe and sound, on a long trip somewhere, and he’ll be back soon. Very soon.

Until then, I’ll go on pretending.

 

© Gary McMahon, 2025

Change is Good

Not that anyone noticed my recent absence from Facebook, but lately I've made a few lifestyle changes that are greatly improving my physical and mental health: 

Eliminate sugar and ultra processed foods from my diet, eat clean, reduce calories, increase protien; focus on exercise (weights, karate, HIIT), cut back on alcohol; spend increasingly less time on social media and eventually quit, read more, write more. Be more present in the real world.

I'm keeping my Facebook account going, but only because it's often a great resource for book and film recommendations. I plan to remain active on Instagram for the time being, and will continue update my film diary on Letterboxd.

June Already?

 A few weeks ago, I caught covid. It was my second time (the last time was just after the second lockdown, which feels like a lifetime ago). This time it hit me pretty hard: a week in bed, and 4 weeks later, I'm still recovering. 

So the writing has stalled yet again. 

I'm hoping to get back to it this week. I have two stories to polish and send off to editors, a novelette to finish, and another story to give a final read through before it's ready to email to the editor who commissioned it.

I also need to get back to the novel. It's been so long since I finished my last novel that I can't even remember when it was. Again, it feels like a lifetime ago. I still have the urge to write, to create stories, so I'm hoping that will sustain me through to the end of this project.

As always, we'll see. We'll see.

Writing Update

I'm still working on my epistolary novelette, The First Road To Hell. It's almost there; just a few additional scenes to add, then it'll be ready for a final edit. I have a couple of publishers in mind to approach so we'll see how that pans out.

Recently, I downloaded the trial version of Scrivener. It's a terrific writing tool, exactly what I needed. Lately I've been trying to outline more (I was always a "panster" came it came to writing novels, but my approach needs to change to suit the changes in my writing technique and the general lack of writing time I have at my disposal). I'm using the software to work on a novel, tentatively titled Things Begun Bad. Hopefully it'll help to get me back into the novel-writing groove...

I have three new short stories to submit - responses to invites from kind editors. I've written all three of them and just need to go through the final editing process. I honestly believe that the short stories I'm producing now are among the best I've ever done. I've learned a lot over the last couple of decades and I hope it shows in the work.

Haiku of the Day

Had an idea

For a brand new short story

Maybe tomorrow