Oscar Richard
Bio
An artist, an alchemist; quixotic and shmaltzly, fervent too... Probably pompous, and perfectly, ordinarily self-deprecating.
Stories (20/0)
Aid by Day...
Brighton beach buzzes in the summertime, with waves of funky youths and rapidly-growing sub-cultures, fish and chips on the pier with some scroungy pervert moping around. It’s a mixed jumble of chaps and chicks, and they range from the very very banal, to the disconcertingly abnormal.
By Oscar Richard3 years ago in Fiction
Facets
Part One - A common, small town, packed with bumbling commoners, some odd, others plain, was subject to an infamous period of deep unease. During this time a leaden strangeness weighed down the town, turning the residents untrusting and timid. Frightened became the default condition. Schools filled with gossip and juvenile naiveté about the topic; kids made up phrases like “the aqua-psycho” or “the river maniac”, and the adults kept those they knew not so well a lot further away; the town was, speaking in older terms, under a spell. Darkness wasn’t imminent, it was here.
By Oscar Richard3 years ago in Criminal
Yes, Mistress [MK.2]
In the amber glow of my salt-lamp, in those mellow hours of the morning, on a mattress rather than in a bed, I seek to identify the true quest of the day, if it differs to any of the others this week. While my stomach aches like a hungry prisoner I, only with traditional indifference, tinker with my testicles like a sculptor moulds his clay, stretching the flesh and reminding that intimate area that at least one hand can summon the strength to entertain it. Some deplorable pigeon coos, the jackdaws murmur, cars pass, nothing erects. Today is the first real allusion to winter, for these ultra soft breezes that sneak through my open window and stroke my exposed skin come with a definitive coolness, a cold message from the cold future, for Winter says, today: “I am on my way." This morning my leaping off the mattress, my lust for a shower, my want for apparel has been delayed. Instead, I listen like a dopey kid to the quiet and crisp whispers which allure to a frosty fate, and play with the hairy play-dough that dangles between my legs.
By Oscar Richard3 years ago in Filthy
Little Black Rambo
Our early memories are often defined by a quirky combination of vagueness and distinction. We remember the crux of a context, the emotions that were elicited, but seldom do we recall every specific detail — perhaps because the feelings and the gist is just enough!
By Oscar Richard3 years ago in Confessions
Yes Mistress.
In the amber glow of my salt-lamp, in those mellow hours of the morning, on a mattress rather than in a bed, I seek to identify the true quest of the day, if it differs to any of the others this week. While my stomach aches like a hungry prisoner I, only with traditional indifference, tinker with my testicles like a sculptor moulds his clay, stretching the flesh and reminding that intimate area that at least one hand can summon the strength to entertain it. Some deplorable pigeon coos, the jackdaws murmur, cars pass, nothing erects. Today is the first real allusion to winter, for these ultra soft breezes that sneak through my open window and stroke my exposed skin come with a definitive coolness, a cold message from the cold future, for Winter says, today: “I am on my way”. This morning my leaping off the mattress, my lust for a shower, my want for apparel has been delayed. Instead, I listen like a dopey kid to the quiet and crisp whispers which allure to a frosty fate, and play with the hairy play-dough that dangles between my legs.
By Oscar Richard3 years ago in Filthy