Jeering

The picador moved against the fence, screaming, the bull looking at the horse, then glancing back at the pink capes in the bullfighter's hands, the picador rotating the horse and screaming, the bull's back legs planted, its front legs rotating to look at the horse, rotating back to look back at the pink capes, the picador screaming, the bull's front legs rotating so the bull could look back at the pink capes, then rotating back to look back at the rotating horse, the shouting picador turning the horse in full-revolution turns, trying to get the bull to charge, the fascinated bull intrigued by the capes and the rotating horse, the picador moving closer and closer, the flickering, blue bullfighters' suits like serene seas in the arena's light, the horse closing, and closing, and closing in, the picador's lance rising, the bull studying things tranquilly, the crowd jeering, not happy with the lack of action, the picador closing in, the booing crowd displeased with tameness and indecision, the jeering crowd jeering like safe crowds do.

Born in Kalgoorlie, Western Australia. Travelled across Asia, The Middle East and Europe. Has worked for NGO's in Iraq, The Occupied Territories and Kosovo. Having a taste for fine wine and food, bullfighting, beautiful women and exquisite architecture may explain why this disaster tourist lives in Madrid. His short stories have been published in Southerly, Island, Whiskey Island and many other magazines. He has only ever entered one literary competition – paying to be published doesn't interest him – and he got third prize. (Tom Hungerford Award when living in Perth). He also won The Nassau Review Short Story Award one year just because the winning story got published in The Nassau Review. (It didn't pay; but he did receive 150US dollars which he was very grateful for).