The Well

Once I hit my brother and a pain filled my throat,

Bursting from inside my chest, from a hole.

He ran to tell my parents and silence filled the yard.

I stood there knowing there was no escape.

The welling inside a child when he knows he’s to blame.

The dread of the validation of his shame.

The welling dread of a dwelling head.

Who was I when I decided to be me instead?

Stinging past sings tempting paths,

In a time between sin and wrath.

I remember the garden breeze,

Whispering, “Where are you?”

Through the trees.


I find great pleasure

In a tea

It’s warm and sweet and

Good to me.


I watch steam rising

In the cold.

A warmly warmth that

Warms my soul.


I hold the tea cup

In my hands,

Like it’s a tiny bird from

Fairy land.


Mystical beverage of

Beautiful taste.

Like a grandmother’s hug

We all embrace.


The taste of tea is

To the eye;

Morning dew and a

Golden sky.


If I fail

Quite Miserably,

I’ll still find joy

With my tea.


Written by Randall Evans.

Disjointed Desire


Law of nature,
And of time.
Mine is nothing,
In this life.

Vision in the season of depletion,
Incompletion’s my only foundation
Repletion of all but a reason.

Strife in man.
It’s here to stay;
I separate…

Revealed by desire
Of a simple smile
No barrier between self and liar.

How to discipline this mind?
To stop the cycle that I hide,
Solve the puzzle in my soul.
Hold my hand… Make me whole.

This is The Vile Mint
Written By Randall Evans



It was a mid-morning start, which meant the traffic was a little lighter and the gangs of retirees were taking over the cafes. I pulled up next to a trendy family car – Upper middle class.


I couldn’t see the driver. All I could see was the left arm of the passenger.

The wrist was decorated with the cuffs of a women’s power suit and a gold bracelet that was probably purchased in 1993. The bony hand, barely visible through the window tint, was worn and stressed.

Why isn’t she at work? It’s past 10…

Why wasn’t this independent hand on the steering wheel?

She had probably just come from the doctors. An elbow so casually, so… tensely resting on the window could only mean bad news. Her husband, or dare I say, old friend who’s always loved her but never been able to crack through her tough exterior, had driven her for moral support.

He left his car at hers because she’d rather be dead being seen in his bomb.

What’s the point? I mean, what’s the point of that gold bracelet? It doesn’t impress me much. I wonder if she was rubbing it in her anxiety as the doctor told her the news.

I turn up the music in my car. I wonder if I do it to impress the retirees with amazing heavy metal.

The status symbol is too heavy. It becomes a chain… A metal chain that pulls her along.

What hit her the most in her appointment? The realisation that she’s going to die, or the realisation that she’d wasted her life.

The car, the chain, the suit, the nail polish…

The skin, the muscles, the bones…

The heart.

Let’s strip it all away.

She’s protecting herself. The little girl she once was… She was hurt by the world. So, she put on her armor. She wasn’t enough just being a shining light, a pure spirit. She needed to project and deflect. If she fails, and she will, it’s because of the suit, the chain, the car, the lack of skills… never because of who she is.

She’s not a failure… She’s not…

Written by Randall Evans

This is The Vile Mint




The Beach


Ash floats through misty sea breeze,
Above infinite sand of memory.
And a mother’s son runs along this beach,
With the water cold beneath his feet.

A revery passage to the other side,
A moment’s mortality magnified.
They built a castle by ocean spray,
Worth more in time when washed away.

Beneath, or within, the expanse of stars,
The beach is alone, but these two say it’s ‘ours’.
The boy, now a man, knows just what to do,
He carries his future; a ring out of view.

Mystery entwined in pure connection,
Introspection, no answers, but new life from affection,
The man smiles in his thoughts of reflection,
Undulating emotion recalls the castle’s perfection.

A mother, son, wife and child,
Surrounded by the sea.
The tide rolls in, her spirit drifts out.
Now there’s only three.

The sunset shines across the sand
Something’s heavy in his hands.
Three long shadows slowly fade
Clouds obscure, the beach is greyed.

She holds her son so the man’s alone,
The cold breeze blowing undertone.
With a breath and a cry the ashes are thrown,
Swallowed into sea, mother taken back home.

Ash floats through misty sea breeze,
Above infinite sand of memory.
And a mother’s son runs along this beach,
With the water cold beneath his feet

– By Randall Evans.

The Little Man And I

Drip… Drip… Drip…

“What is it now?” A shadow passed across the face of a tiny man. He lifted his head to see a demon perched by the window.

“A lying tongue, my good man.” The demon smiled it’s sharp, stained teeth. It smiled because of the little man’s face. He pulled the face of one who was suppressing an unannounced internal pain. Oh, how beautiful it was.


The little man picked up his sharp little quill and started to write onto the soft, warm surface.

“Work’s been busy?” Asked the man, trying his best to hide any emotion from his voice.

The demon opened his wings to reveal another mouth protruding from his stomach.

It spoke.

“Don’t you want to know what he said?”

The man was only half way through carving ‘lying’ when the bleeding started.

“Or are you running out of space? I know another little man who ran out of space only yesterday.”

“Oh?” The little man’s poker face took up valuable vocabulary space. He finished off his second word, pulled a little handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his bloody hand.

The demon closed his wings and spoke from his sharp teeth.

“Work is easy. I hardly have to do anything. It’s almost like delegating without delegating. They are all under his employ now.

The words reflected on the little man’s eyes as he shut the doors of reaction.


The demon smiled.

“At least it keeps you in a job. I’ll se ya.”

And with that, the demon departed. The little man breathed a sigh of relief. He sat down, wiped his hands free from blood stared at the bleeding heart in front of him. A giant heart, stained and scared with evil.

It was afternoon now and the light from the window was passing along the floor as the day came closer to an end. The light never reached the heart.

The man sat alone in the dark and began to cry.

– By Randall Evans.

Joshologue #1

Hi… I’m Josh.

This is my first time talking to myself… I wonder if it’s strange for you too…

Why talk? What type of void am I filling? I’m not sure… Yet…

Well… Here we go.


In almost every aspect of life, I come to the point where it becomes necessary to question the conventions. Perhaps it’s not the conventions per say, rather, the flow of things.

For years I was friends with this writer. He used to always get lost in his own words. Well, I guess the words weren’t his… the words he aligned… Well… One day, he became bored.

The writer became bored of creating a fictional fabrication of a simple idea that could be put rather simply.

He asked me, “Is this just excess fat, or is it important to the story?”

I had no idea… So I told him my story, put simply.

A man wakes up, skips breakfast, works a seemingly endless day and comes home to an overcooked meal and an under-loved wife, only to starts the process again in a few hours time.

The writer looked me right in the eyes. Right in the soul.

So… Where is it? Where is the substance? Where is the fat?

Well, I guess it could be seen differently… It’s subjective right? Author intent is only part of the meaning that can be derived from any story… Of course, I didn’t express these desperate feelings of justification to the writer… he might have blogged about it….

Finally he said to me, “Well, in this scenario it is pretty obvious where the fat is…”


“It’s the whole story.”


This is the vile mint.