Kurtis Pryde
Bio
I like to explore the fundamental human struggle and what it means to us, my novel Huxley is complete and I'm currently seeking representation.
Stories (14)
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Young Hearts:
She’d woken up early, climbed out of bed without him stirring, made her way downstairs and slipped out of the door. She’d walked two miles before sunrise to reach the station and then she planted herself somewhere between the yellow line and the platform edge. The morning dew dripped from the treetops, birds chirped as birds do and spring smelled just like spring. Clouds clouded, lights lit, traffic trafficked, and the moon hung around past its bedtime. All was as it always was which struck her as strange, because nothing was as it always was. Coffee tasted as bitter as the day before and her cigarette butt hissed in a puddle as though it was a regular day. There was a hole in the sole of her left converse, that the big toe relentlessly dug deeper. It gyrated back and forth trying to break free and reach the concrete beneath, it too was in disbelief that they’d made it and probably wanted to test the ground itself. Big toe, subconscious, it’s all the same. The notice board flickered in her peripheral, the train was delayed, her train. Not by much but enough for nerves to set in and maybe even change her mind, she feared. She was finally cashing in her ticket; an abstract one-way freedom pass she’d dreamed up a few years prior. The idea manifested and was used much like a comfort blanket, one that she slept with each night, smuggled in her bag to work, and kept close at all times. At any given moment she could escape into the idea and put some distance between herself and the present. She’d likened it to Bukowski’s bluebird or Dorothy’s slippers, but it wasn’t either, it was Faith’s ticket.
By Kurtis Pryde6 months ago in Fiction
Saul's Angst:
All he had to do was cross the room, step through the door and hide inside of the closet. It was open an inch, enough to see the void beyond. He circled his thumbs from his bed, his feet tucked beneath himself in one of those positions that only children are able. Voices from below resonated in young Saul’s room, mainly his fathers, it shook the room with its dull bass that carried. His mothers didn’t carry as well, only the upper end of her frequencies could migrate whichever floor she was on. Nonetheless, Saul couldn’t make out the words that came from either of them, but he did know it was high time to hide.
By Kurtis Pryde2 years ago in Fiction
If You're Gone:
The spring flowers bloomed in vain because Billy had his curtains drawn. He hadn’t left the house in three days and he was now basking in darkness. The living room door was ajar, and a slither of light illuminated the left side of his face. His eyes winced when he sipped from the cup that held three fingers of bourbon, he wasn’t accustomed to alcohol of that strength. In the other room, his girlfriend stacked her packed bags in a slow and lethargic manner, waiting for that magic phrase from Billy, which was anything but silence. Her light and gentle sobbing was genuine, no doubt, but she accentuated it for both their benefit, but Billy wouldn’t bite. His jaw was squarer than normal, there in the dark, he bit down to pulsate his facial muscles as he had seen his Father do in highly emotional situations.
By Kurtis Pryde3 years ago in Fiction
Keep The Faith:
Keep The Faith: She would float between rooms while cleaning. Almost like she was on blades, gliding; tight curls bouncing, barely keeping pace behind her. Her hair whipped at every sharp turn she took. Bon Jovi blasted out of my Dad’s raga system, a long-lost ancient superior technology that played ‘Slippery When Wet’ to the neighbours nausea. They probably got it from both sides, those years; ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, belonged to Bon Jovi. I’d bounce on the grey suede sofa’s to the walking bass of ‘Keep The Faith’, through mist clouds of furniture polish. To this day the two are synonymous, I can’t hear the song without recalling the smell, or vice-versa.
By Kurtis Pryde3 years ago in Humans
The Exile:
The Exile: The American grasslands were truly great, Ivan learned this in un-great steps. An inch at a time, he progressed what seemed to be infinity. A vast half frozen plain stretched beneath him, a blue one above him. The things in-between appeared hellbent to kill him, in a slow, cruel and unusual way. He’ seldomly thought of cold as a predatory force before, but now it nipped at his heels, stole his breath and encircled him. Ivan slowed like tired prey, but he knew if he stopped he’d be eaten by frost and encased in the sub-zero belly of nature. He was hungry and surmised that everything else was hungry too. Even the trees looked starved by winter and they waved at the sky for mercy and sun. He had walked for two days, and his feet had swollen. His shoes were still laced and where the leather met the skin, resided a pain formerly foreign to him. The discomfort came in waves and began in his toes where the moisture had crept in through loose stitches. The pain then radiated to the sole and backward toward the heel. The unforgiving and firm terrain only exaggerated the sharp stabs and forced him to shuffle his feet instead of step. The only break he received from the agony in his feet was caused by his belt. A two day fast had shrunk his waist line, now his trousers hung loosely and rubbed on his thighs, the friction caused a sore. The sore had burst twice already, when it did, he was momentarily relieved of the pain in his feet.
By Kurtis Pryde3 years ago in Fiction
No Expectations:
The city traffic raced as much at night as it did during the day, with speeding headlights chasing fading taillights. The Christmas decorations in the bar opposite twinkled with an urgency almost as frantic as the traffic. Rowan took a drag of his cigarette; the cold air made the paper stick to his lip and it stung when he pulled it away. He stood on wet concrete with the front door ajar behind him, he curled his toes, which had numbed in his damp socks. He licked the sore on his lip and squinted to get a better view of the bar. There was a party of some sort taking place. He doubted it was a Christmas party, it was only late November, but he kept an open mind. It was a work event, he could tell by the way the people were rigid, unfamiliar and politely reserved. It was mostly women and a few men in suits that were knocking drinks back like there was no tomorrow. Rowan wondered what he’d see if he stayed to watch the whole night play out. The notion fled his mind when he recalled the work parties he’d been to. It always ended with advances from middle management men on to women half their age. Sometimes it was entry level women on to men in middle management or indeed higher. He rolled his eyes and let his gaze drift into traffic once again. His phone pinged, it was a message from lostboy80989 and all it said was “dude, wtf?” Rowan locked the phone and slid it back into his pocket. He wanted solitude, just for a moment, just enough for some clarity. He hated the city but the traffic had a way of drowning out the silence and all that followed in it’s deafening path, like white noise.
By Kurtis Pryde3 years ago in Fiction
All We Wrote:
All We Wrote: How long do you think we’ve been doing this? I bet you don’t know. Eleven years. Eleven long years, we’ve been back and forth for over a god damn decade. I’ve given you everything. I rush home from work, I cook and clean and carve out every spare second that I possibly can for you. I’ve made you my life and you haven’t shown a single ounce of gratitude. Some people want us to win, others roll their eyes when I mention you, but I don’t hear a single fucking critic, the good or the bad. I have tunnel vision for us and what we could attain. Nothing pulls you close enough to see what we could be. We could be great like Gatsby, or as profound as Hemingway. I leave nothing unsaid for you, I bleed thoughts for no food and open doors for you to close. Some days I wish I could rip up everything we achieved. If I did would you care? Would you beg me to stay and hear me out? Would you really listen to my words instead of meeting them with the cold silence you usually do?
By Kurtis Pryde3 years ago in Confessions
No Good Way To Die:
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. It wasn’t lit the first time that Jack stumbled past; he was sure. He closed one eye to fix a lousy double vision and staggered about on inebriated legs. Back and forth, side to side in a small circle. His sheer will to stand was about all that kept him from crashing down, fading into the night and dying a slow cold death. Even he, in his current state didn’t want to go like that. The flame burned bright in the backdrop of the woods that swallowed all light. It buried every photon like the black hole nested in the middle of our cosmic neighbourhood. The moon couldn’t completely penetrate the thick foliage although the lonely blue beams tried their hardest. The closest town was a few miles back, its vibrancy stood no chance out that far, nature had created an unwelcome void in the middle of the beautiful heartlands. Jack had walked a long way to look for something, anything, and surmised that he’d know exactly what when he saw such a thing. He took a shot from his whiskey that he held between his thumb and first finger which had ceased in place on the bottles neck. All he had to do was raise it to his lips, tilt his head back and enjoy the slow burn. He figured if the cold didn’t kill him maybe the burn would, the ninety proof might trigger something as it descended his torso, a final frontier for all. Except for the one window, the cabin was shadowy and decaying under a thick veil of moss. Ivy had encased the porch and its limbs undoubtedly held up the structure’s integrity. What ripped through the cabin also kept it up, Jack observed and took another shot. The December ground reeked of everything that had died on it and now lay rotting, he hadn’t known decaying leaves to give off such a repulsive smell, the stench doubled when he dragged his heels through the wet mud. He had to fight for his feet, his legs ached from peeling his boots from the thick sludge. He hadn’t quite realised he was approaching the cabin until he was well underway. His subconscious mind followed the sweet scent of something he once knew. So, He approached. Drawn like a moth to a flame.
By Kurtis Pryde4 years ago in Fiction
Burning Pages:
Burning Pages: I have a recurring dream where burning pages fall from the sky. My writing, my life’s work. My love and hope. So many scorching pages flutter down and heat the air, I can’t breathe. I try to salvage what I can, but the ashes burn and blister my skin. The sky is dark, a city flickers in the distance. Its buildings glow, licked by tall flames, I hear it popping and snapping. A creek beside me reflects the red and orange, it sizzles when the embers land. I can’t see where I’m going but for a moment the smoke clears and I’m on a wide road, there’s no cars no shelter. The heat slows me. My feet feel heavy, and my head hangs low. I look up, I see her, the subject of my pages. The hurt on my skin Is nothing now. I call to her but she can’t hear me. The wind picks up and howls and whips fire into spirals that approach like small storms. She’s unburnt for now but scared. Her eyes glimmer with fear and hope, somehow. I step toward her, but she moves back, not intentionally, she glides. Every step I take the distance remains the same. I panic and begin to run. Pain shoots through my legs like they’ve snapped and shattered, I run still. Even at high speed I just can’t close the distance.
By Kurtis Pryde4 years ago in Psyche
Kill The Indian, Save The Man: A Grim Look At Native Integration Schools:
Kill the Indian, save the man. Throughout the latter half of the nineteenth century and the first of the twentieth, over one hundred thousand Native American children were torn from their families. They were placed into boarding schools designed to integrate and assimilate Indian children into Western culture. Not only were their traditional clothes stripped from them, their hair was cut, their languages were banned, and they were broken down and rebuilt in the image of the white man. These authoritarian schools operated in a militaristic fashion, corporal punishment was conventional practise, and Christianity was heavily taught by cultivated nuns and priests. The schools were no stranger to mental, physical and sexual abuse, the sufferings were cruel, unusual and strange. The children, who wore traditional Western clothing with haircuts to match were burdened by heavy schedules, English and mathematics were taught among industrialisation and an extremely sanitised depiction of history, particularly that of America.
By Kurtis Pryde5 years ago in The Swamp
