Sunday, November 20, 2016

Anonymous

A large cardboard refrigerator box opened out from under her, for comfort, of sorts, for the collection of change from those who passed her by, who kept on walking.
Across the road a café opened, the smell of shower gel and hairspray fresh on the customers who walked in and out anonymous.
Cars sped by, their drivers trying not to spill their paper cup lattes, checking their Facebook, picking the coagulated sleep crustaceans from their eyes, trying to make that light, always red, always red, why are the lights always red when you have to be somewhere you think is important?
 She tips over, a mass of dirty clothes now hiding a body which is also worn, also spent.
She cries out, a  breath carrying silent words wheezed from lungs tarred from rollies, fag ends discarded by others, her last luxuries, from a life without. No words, just a breath gently escaping as her body turns off, at ease, at last.
No-one hears all ears are turned else ware.

The lights turn green and Grey Lynn’s morning gets back on track, hardly missing a beat, that anyone notices.


Kirk Lafferty 11/16  

Thursday, November 3, 2016

Cuppa / Short Short Fiction.



Photo , The key , Mexico 2008

My Writing Tutor told me 
never write about the mundane, cups of tea,
or going to the bathroom or the things in life that really 
do not have too much meaning, I took that as a challenge 
Here is Cuppa

Cuppa

     ‘Come down for a cuppa', she said, as if nothing else mattered. Had she forgotten all that had gone before? Of course she had, she was old. It was easier for her to forget than to remember what it was she said.

        That day she called me by my brother's name, sitting me down scone and cream, thinking I was he, reciting all the crimes, I as me, had committed, some so bizarre that it was hard to believe she believed they were true. It was impossible to stop myself from shaking. My hand faltered as my mind tried to leave the room.
         I watched as crumbs dropped from the side of my now tilted saucer, the sane times disappearing into nothing, Christmas cheer, and birthday celebrations from a time when her mind was clearer, no reminder, now there was only dry scone accumulating on a un-kept carpet. All that had gone before lost, so many happy memories now dark stains in the bottom of my now empty cup. In a mind that believed in good and evil, here I was, her grandson, in her newly formed memories more evil than was possible.
  I scuffed my shoes against her worn down chair leg, stared away from her at the threadbare cushion. It was well past its time, so to was her mind, one stray thread too many leading nowhere and too far gone to be repaired.                                                                          When she left the room for more jam, I left by way of the side door.  A month later the phone call,‘Come down for a cuppa', she said.‘Sorry, Grandma I am too busy'.

Kirk Lafferty 2016 
    






Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Wellington On A Plate / 30 upstairs Gallery Event


This year I was invited down to cook for 'Wellington On A Plate.'
 Wellingtons yearly food festival.  I created banquets for the
 second week of the festival in 30 Upstairs Art Gallery
 Courtney Place Wellington,
Lamb smoker hanging out the window,
hotplate on a shelf,
all without a kitchen. 

 A Cook A Gallery A Painting A Feast


The Event ran over a week with diners enjoying banquet meals
 each night presented as 'Art Cuisine' in their own right .
 I was asked to base it all on Abby Meakin's still life painting
 which hung in the Gallery behind the Diners.


The Middle Course was served on long banquet boards,
 each person received a scroll of my short fiction and poetry
 to indulge in and converse over.


This Dessert the finale of the night was Audible.
Wasabi and Coconut Panne Cotta 
Ginger Soil / Lemongrass Jelly
Yuzu flakes / Lychee popping Candy.


Hanna and Manu added another level of drama
 to the event with their sensuous demented
 and unexpected antics through out the night. 



This was the first time I have presented this amount
 of my written works in public. 
20 pieces of poetry and short fiction were
scrolled up and served with the main course,
 enzymes for conversation starting, 
over the diner table. 


 Abby Meakin, The parade ( 1 panel)

A special thanks to , Jhana Millers and Lisa Martin for creating the event
 and bringing us all together , Hanna Tasker-Polland & Manu Reynaud ,
 for just being themselves.
Abby Meakin For Painting the parade.
Thanks Jeff McEwan from Capture photography for his awesome photos.
For Laura and Tina coming down to Wellington and supporting me .

We dined , We wined 
We celebrated existence.
  







Friday, July 1, 2016

When the dawn breaks, a breakfast of broken clichés.



When the fog lifts
I will get my life in order
Make my bed
Clean my room
Shift those old shoes that smell all the time
  
When the dog barks
I will come to attention
Look both ways and decide on a direction to run
Try to remember what it is that I am running from

When I realise
That staying right here is easier
Easier than looking in the mirror
Facing the world, being angry at the paper
My family, my boss, the landlord who keeps asking
My girlfriend who doesn’t ask anymore
The news on the TV, all that killing
All that fighting, all that hunger
I am mad, I am angry
When the fog lifts
I am going to buy myself a gun
And shoot that fucken dog.

When the dawn breaks
We should all stop lying to ourselves

That everything is going to be all right.

Saturday, April 2, 2016

oxtail soup


After watching a masterchef episode I thought I would play with egg white rafting to get a really clear oxtail soup. This was the result I could have thinned it down a bit for transparency but sometimes the photo has to suffer when you are trying to be honest to the dish . Many oxen died in the creation of this dish . 

Notting Hill Kitchen Parnell Auckland