Caught in a Box

When was the last time you were caught in a box. A 6 panelled square lock in. Maybe with one accoutrement of your choice. An ashtray. A chair. One book.

You can choose an item but nonetheless, you are still in the box. the 6 squares following you wherever you go.


It's cumbersome, whilst being small. I think that the smaller the space, the heavier the space gets. You are limited, but also the maximum is strong in itself. It confines you and paralyses you because thats all you have.

That's all you have. 

Then a corner turns.

Maybe next week.

Justin Batchelor

Come home

move back

leave town

What, you thought it was just you?

stay strong

be well

keep in

It will be fine. 

Are you sure. Are you confident. Are you 100% 


Thankyou so much. 

Do you have a room?

Justin Batchelor

if I saw you again I'd stay away. 

if I saw you again I'd likely sway. 

if I saw you again I'd only glance. 

if I saw you again, it wouldn't be chance. 

if I saw you again, I'd apologise. 

if I saw you again, I'd remenisce. 

if I saw you again I wouldn't say a word. 

i hope to see you again. 

and not. 


There's this building across from me, a mini tower of average means. It's bored and staid, much like bad cheese in the fridge after a few days after its relative expiry. 

And as the euro passersbys head to their airbnb, it remains neglected even from a glance. A lone structure, drab and poorly designed on its facade. 

A quiet street propels it into its own nothing. Inside a million tales, loss, love, death and betrayal. A modern version of a Greek mythology, wrapped in a few concrete walls. 

don't ever enter them. Because more likely you'll not evade the trap, and you will, in time, be a product of no imagination.


Justin Batchelor

Lost. For words. 

In words. With words. For words. 


The only way here. Is there. Must get there. 

Floating in the muggy ether. Smelling it on the edges of your nostrils.  

The pungent smell of modernism. The pungent smell of exit. 

Keep up. Keeping up.

Embankment 2

Her eyes spelled disaster. She, as well as he, had risked enough just by meeting, making sure to be as far as possible from normal routes.

She had told him little of her llfe, choosing to keep it in a locked closet, holding the key close to her chest.

He had followed her lead, not the other way around. His nerves were already shot. Marissa could not know.

His three children could not know.

His colleague could not know.

This would be his forever.

A trap he had set himself. As both bait and animal. 

And as he woke to realisation of her identity, a new national heroine after the incident, it also dawned on him that she was more brave than he.

He remembered it had confused him at first, her bravado.

She calmly walked up to the wiry young man, strapped to the nines with explosives and a mobile phone attempting to calm him through the vomit of foreign expletives.

She yelled at him to stop, all the while backhanding her lover to the rear of the train.

Others had also tried to move, but were blocked by the mini melee.

And as the final cries went up, and he opened the door at the end of the carriage, he watched through the window of the door.

The short flicker of orange and black. The fireball spreading through the carriage. 

Burning everything in its wake.

The mother exhaling for the last time.

The child, fearful of her mothers reaction.

The school boy trying to shield himself pointlessly from the blast.

The old man, waiting patiently for the event horizon.

And in that moment, that reach, the closed door, the cold sleepers underfoot, rock and steel. All becoming a friend and saviour.

He realised, in this opening moment of the mind, this truth.

All memory depletes over time, but rarely does it return with such vigour. Nothing embellished. Nothing amiss. All true.

He had, in a moment, awaited his death with his one time lover.

Whose face was now a poster child for a government in retribution, a social outrage and international mourning.

Marissa had always sensed something. She had watched and listened to her husband over time, exploring his lost memory and piecing the puzzle together.

A lover.

Who had saved him.

And was now soaked into every moment of his life. 

He could not redress with any pithy argument or story.

He could feel the walls closing in and the floor and ceiling encroaching his personal space like a small box winding tight.

“John” said Marissa.

John stumbled his mind from its thin aperture and looked at his wife of 16 years.

His soul shattered. His mind unbroken, and broken at the same time.

“Yes.” he said.

Like he was already agreeing to what had occurred, and giving thanks for the woman by his side.

And the life that he was about to ruin.

Justin Batchelor

The wall of terror had struck an immediate chord. Arising form the dusty remnants of human history had produced an ashen face, stricken with the history of the fallen.

He was still here. With his past present and a now unsure future. Life but his, had been extinguished. And the only answers were his.

A lone survivor in an immediate aftermath.

No one else could speak of what he had witnessed. That spark that had transformed an ancient subset of underground tubes. 

The flash had taken his eyes for a moment. A moment enough to dull the pain of what was to come. That s what shock is. The immediate aftermath of hat has occurred. A brilliant moment where everything comes into a perspective you never thought or witnessed before.

That army soldier, witnessing death in all its extremes, having never understood the concept of passing in all its forms. With your stomach hanging out and all.

Mind the Gap the voice had said. Not realising that the gap was the end of all time for the few but him.

"Garvey, I think you went crazy"


So yeah.




New projects

Thumb twiddling means script writing and looking forward to a few new shorts coming this way shortly.

Julie is a little on the odd side. Her new love of scriptwriting invades her daily life, enabling her to escape the mundane realities.

Julie is a little on the odd side. Her new love of scriptwriting invades her daily life, enabling her to escape the mundane realities.

Barren nights at a new typewriter can lead to the oddest of occurrences.

Barren nights at a new typewriter can lead to the oddest of occurrences.

Justin Batchelor