Marcus Paul Hargis' photostream

Through photography I image the world's
colours,
textures,
movements, and
moments.

Through fiction I imagine the world's
what if's,
would be's,
could be's, and
should never ever be's...

In all, I seek
to make interesting the ordinary
to make incisive the extraordinary.


Born in the US, brought up in the UK and married to an Indian, I am a professional speaker, wordsmith and thinker, an Explored Flickr-ite photographer, and an all-round good guy.

Feel free to get and keep in touch.


“They’re coming!” Basking in the kudos from bagging a minor z-list celebrity for the event, the functionary at Neurovision Centre bubbled with orgasmic pride at having spotted the limo first. She had all the attributes to succeed: anonymously beautiful, bland skin, fragile limbs, diminutive waist, shallow elliptical hips, parabolic breasts and indistinct features.

Sucking in sterile air pumped from the corporate cleanser, looking at the simple lines of her blank glass-covered, steel-fabricated world, she was reassured that all around her was unadulterated. The robots had done their job and not a speck of dirt remained, inside the compound at least. A sleek, driverless limo approached the fortified gates. She held her breath as the reinforced plastic barrier swept open, allowing in air from the fetid exterior.

Outside in the dark, an outsized passer-by happened to be there. It was her misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She had that habit. Strolling along, unaware of who was coming, the pedestrian paused a safe distance from the opening portal, knowing she risked a tazer bolt or worse if she got too close by chance. She did not see the large stagnant puddle filled with oily water.

“Hey, watch it!” she shouted at the vehicle as it swept past, coating her with the foul soup that had stood around for weeks. No-one heard her, no-one ever heard Sharon Wyatt.

From The Last of the Peacocks, a novel by Marcus Paul Hargis