Welcome to the prose section of Silhouetted Sun. This is where I post my latest fiction. I'm currently working on one or two main pieces, including 'road and 'Maddock', the latter of which is most near completion.
I may decide to alter one or two things before the final draft, but until then the introduction to 'Maddock' would be a good taster, and will give you the flavour of the final piece.
I hope you like it; I hope you laugh. With any luck, the final story will make you cry too :)

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-Maddock-

Occasionally, there are some people in life, who as soon as you meet them, instantly get on your tits. That is if you have tits (which I don't), and if you don't then they'd soon as just get on them anyway because they're just so god damn annoying. Although whether or not they know they're being annoying is still questionable, which perhaps makes them even more annoying because they might not know it, and if they do, you don't know if they do, or know if they know that you know that they know they're annoying. Confused yet? Well put it this way: you know someone like this. How do you know? Because they get on your tits, whether you have them or not.
James Maddock was such a person, and as we join him, he's lying flat on his back, face up in a ditch; somewhere between North-East Central America and the Scottish highlands, looking up at the stars, and belching loudly. The geography didn't make sense, and it didn't have to. In fact, it was probably an intensely good thing (for both Maddock and the populous as a whole) that this particular ditch was uninhabited because it meant that he couldn't annoy anybody. It made sense to him anyway.
Unfortunately, this you forget is James Maddock, annoyance extraordinaire, and professional hobo, and despite there being nobody else around, he was still annoying. In fact, he was rather good at it. His hair represented the typical stereotype of a botched 'do-it-yourself' brown mullet, out from which stared his particularly mismatched eyes. One eye was a dark brown, and the other (for some inexplicable reason, known only to a presumably sadistic and severely pissed off god) was light blue. Neither eye was the same size, and neither eye was a normal size for any eye, unless you'd just hoovered an entire quarter of smack off the front bonnet of a car. Maddock's cream checked t-shirt had a rip on the left shoulder, and was perhaps one size too big for him. His jeans were faded and heavily stained, and his shoes looked as though they'd been donated to a charity shop (which they had) by a tramp, who retrieved them from a landfill site after a vicious battle with a team of pigeons.
"I left you with the entire bag, and you're goin' to tell me that you, that you what? That you've done it all?" Another loud belch from Maddock as his eyes rolled about in an empty skull and he laughed into the cell-phone. "Ha ha, yeah. Funny init?"
"Bullshit, James. Where the fuck is it? Don't say you lost it."
"I didn't lose it man, don't sweat."
"Thank fuckin' God, cos these guys are gonna get nasty you know? Don't push me too far with your shit now, James. Where'd you put it? Just tell me where you put it and I'll come and get it if you're too drunk to drive over to, Dan's." There was an edge to Mark Hamilton's voice as he dared to hope that Maddock could remember, in his paralytic state where he'd stowed the dope. Not that there wasn't always an edge to Marks' voice. It came from both a progressive waste in the bowls of a backcountry punk movement, ingeniously entitled 'Mega Dead Rotting Corpse Will Kill You Now', and partially from having known Maddock for so long, that hope had become a foreign and dangerous acquaintance. The fact that he was also currently standing in somewhat soiled boxer shorts, in a phone box across the street from a group of waiting cars, probably had something to do with his nerves as well.
Silence on Maddock's end of the line. "So where is it, Jim mate?"
Maddock looked horribly frightened for a second, as though he really had forgotten where he'd put Mark's cannabis. Mark seemed to sense this, and realising that Maddock might be about to go off on a lengthy panic attack, and that time was of the essence, as his dad had used to say, for his own neck; jumped in to save both their skins. "So...where is it then?"
Remembering again, Maddock smiled once more.
"I hoovered it." The last vestiges of Maddock's metaphorical brain, serving barely for motor-functional purposes dribbled into the void, and he collapsed into laughter.
"Fuck. You're really not just drunk. Are you?" The last vestiges of Mark Hamilton's soon to be deceased brain simultaneously began to contemplate their fate. "Oh, Jim. You let me down you oxymoronic twat."
And the phone went dead, and fell into the ditch beside Madock's hysterical self.
Two and a half miles away, a gun went off. Twice. Followed by two more shots, a rally of sub-machine gunfire and, about a minute later, one final, lone gunshot.
Both hyenas, the camel and the entire jungle along with two pupils shot back into Maddock's head as he abruptly stopped laughing, and the stars slipped briefly back into focus. "Oh, fuck."
Then he turned over, puked up a few times, rolled onto his side, and went to sleep; at the edge of a field, under the stars, somewhere between North-East Central America and the Scottish highlands.