Author Archives: malekmontag

About malekmontag

I am a writer and a wage-slave, and proud father of George Giraffe. I live in the UK, but I exist everywhere. My first stories were published this year (2016) in Short Stories and Tall Tales (Atla Publishing). Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15. My Work is also available on Niume.com.

It’s out now!

“She stepped back, moved away from me. “You know, you need to let go,” she said: “What have you got to lose? Hey? Release your urges, go with your instincts.” A brooding darkness hurried in through the naked window. She … Continue reading

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Pieces

(http://cdn.emgn.com/wp-content/  Mexico-Street-Art)   Pieces. Pieces. Pieces of eight, pieces of nine, pieces of china lying scattered on the floor, left in a ley of line. My mind is in pieces, indistinct, vague remnants of thoughts, iterating incoherently in the vast … Continue reading

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Those Delicious Summer Moments

Image Credit: http://www.henkvanrensbergen.com/wp-content/   Brooding, moody high Low sky charcoal dense, and wet With sweet summer rain   Sultry sweat on sheets Damp under boiling skin on Long hot steaming nights   Another year draws near its end another delicious summer … Continue reading

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American Gods

You know you’ve read a great book when you close it for the last time and feel like a distant member of your family has passed on, or you sit in your favourite chair, place, restaurant and stare at a … Continue reading

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Grant Me My Freedom

Grant me my freedom here that I may wander under this cloud of twisted green and brown and coarse lattice sieving out brilliant light among humanity distilled in a wooden cask holding the yellow aroma of fire and heat and … Continue reading

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My dutiful beautiful eyes

My dutiful beautiful eyes slept long and dreamed they were blue as the skies, yet morning broke it seemed with my limbs tied in a tapestry of a long and feted fantasy where a pungent pink chameleon dressed in a … Continue reading

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Solitaire.

    My game. And cards flick over revealing their faces in honest, bare objectivity.   Naked fingers cold, curling unstained, digits free of another’s untamed scent that’s faded like damp sweat, like dew under a mournful sun at noon, … Continue reading

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