The day I loved you.

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It’s been a while. Here’s a new, short take that fits into the SoulKeeper series I wrote last year. It’s kind of cryptic in places and it leaps about a bit but it’s been a while since I wrote more than a shopping list. Enjoy, and see with your heart.

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The Hundredth Monkey.

The monkey mind has been chattering all week but the time available to write hasn’t happened, so I wrote this short in a sort of coma. It probably shows. This is a first expansion of ‘Habitat’.

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There’s a bigger story in this but I’m tired and have little time to write. This is, at least, the outline and the beginning. I have a few variations on the basic theme so maybe I’ll sketch them next. There’s nothing at all new in this one; it’s a well-worn theme, but I hope the end surprises you.

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Or perhaps ‘Rust’ would be more fitting. It’s the first non-work writing I’ve done in months, and it feels like it: clumsy and jagged. Apologies in advance, dear Reader.

So, I was thinking about Wuthering Heights and that led me to Kate Bush’s song, which is haunting. Cathy and Heathcliff had plenty of unresolved issues, and it got me wondering about the subtexts of relationships and reality; ‘What if?’ Here ’tis.

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Three Months

That’s how long it’s been since I was here last, and you too, by the look of things. I hope you’re all happy and well and that this year will be good to you. Hopefully soon I’ll have something to write that’s worth reading.

Create a good day.

Telephone Line

I originally threw this in when I started blogging here a few months ago, but I think it was buried in everything I uploaded that day. I like this story; always have done.


My second attempt at a love story. Inspired by a friend who asked me if I thought real love ever dies. I said I wasn’t sure if I’d fallen in love before, but I knew I’d trodden in it a few times. Writing this short story was a way to avoid the good slapping I no doubt deserved.

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Punching Dyslexia in its fucking face

Because being a really good person should be rewarded. Addy’s a great guy. Dyslexia’s a huge hurdle for a writer, but he has that kind of courage to just keep going. Visit. Follow. Chat. Worth it.

Addys completly normal blog

So writing and dyslexia have never gone well together. The structure and tones would be horrible, the character creation would be a struggle and don’t get me started on the grammar and spelling.

Basically it would be hard work for the writer and a harder job for the reader reading his/her work.

The dyslexic writer might not even know the work is bad or would be staring at a word that looks completely wrong yet the spell checker isn’t doing anything with it, stumping the writing progress forever. And it is tough.

Imagine going through school wanting to do something academic and seeing your grades fall despite the hours of studying while your friends don’t study and get straight A’s. Or even going into a separate class because of your “disability”.

And in a roundabout way it is a disability. You can walk down your street and ask people if…

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Trickle into Me 

Such a talent, and a really lovely person, too.

Souldier Girl

Spinning bottle caps

On everything you forgot
In such a hurry to leave
Now these boxes sit   
like dead company

        Biting my nails    The snail trailing time    

      You didn’t even tell me! …What I did wrong

My heart a bleeding artery      

                    Hanging like the vacant frames nailed into our drywall                                              

Even though the house is gone

Purple circles from no sleep           Are darker than my chestnut eyes 

Eventually I stopped asking           Besides, your ghost never replies

Spinning ballerina in a box            The laborious turn to…

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My Yesterday 

If I could write like this …

Souldier Girl

Did you ever even see me?
Did you ever even know?
you never asked
always seemed bored
distracted with fancies
passing glances
…behind your glasses
you never sought mygaze
I’m screaming!
…you’re turning the page
magazines and the tele
all you would rather be
not with me
not with me
wonder why you ever said “I do”
white seams split in lieu
…of the vows you promptly outgrew
steelknife through warmskin
tying laces on broken limbs
what a mess!
and you began to stew
and you began to feud knuckles swell with synovial rage
bang bang! …your beautiful punching bag
swings and hangs
they rescued me
…you never changed
your unwrapped fists
devoured promises
suffocating in between
…sullen layers of sunken skin.

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Pardon my French

This is where yesterday’s madness began, and it’s a demonstration of what I love most about blogging. A small comment on a blog I’ve never previously visited led to a completely fucked-up explosion of fun. From tiny seeds, fucking massive trees grow. Thank you, newpollyanna.

New Pollyanna

When I began blogging I decided not to use curse words. I thought it would be impolite. It might offend. It might drive some people away. As it turns out, the opposite has happened… NOT swearing has driven ONE person away: me. It’s just not natural for me not to cuss once in a while, so fuck it. I’m cussin’.

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I’ve met some interesting writers thanks to Chuck Wendig.

I’ve been occasionally looking in on his site for a few years, but rarely posting anything and, until recently, not with this moniker which isn’t, by the way, my real name. Just so you know. As I mentioned in a probably buried post, I’ve had this blog for 5 years but never did a thing with it until recently. Some of you may be sorry I did anything with it ever. So, I’ve uploaded a bit of stuff I’ve written over the years, not because it’s my best work but because it was all I could find after 4 laptop changes and a hundred lost USB sticks.

Now that I’ve drawn you in this far, I’ll … no, fuck it … I’ll circle the point a little more. Because what’s the point of having a reader if you can’t annoy them? Ahem. Moving right along …

Wendig’s latest Workshop is to post the first line of your WIP – that’s writer’s talk for Work In Progress. Yeah, we have ‘talk’ because we’re all cool and shit. Here’s the link to the Workshop.

Being something of an arsehole myself, I dropped a fictitious line in there just for fun. It made me laugh, and I didn’t mean any harm because I just thought everyone else would roll right over the top of it. Then I panicked. I figured I’d better have some sort of story to back that line up with. The thing is, I couldn’t stop laughing, even later in the shopping centre, which brought me some odd looks. Those first two lines were so dystopian I had no real choice but to write further in that fashion, but because men grow older but never grow up, the boy in me – the one who still thinks dick and fart jokes are outrageously funny – couldn’t get past all that.

So now, finally, I’m coming to the point. I started writing Dystopia as soon as I got home. An hour later, with several offensive gags under my belt (Think about that. Hee hee. I told you I’m such a boy!) Here’s the first instalment. NSFW, NSFL, NSFA.

If the spirit moves you, write the next part. If you’re not nearly as juvenile as I am, I’ll keep picking away at it as time and motivation permits.

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Break My Heart Thoroughly.

Every now and then, if you’re very lucky, you come across something so exceptional that you want to scream, call the fire department, or climb a tower dressed as a clown.

There’s a new talent in town, and she’s a beauty. Ada Ireland, take a very well-deserved bow.

Read it and weep. Powerful, compelling, incisive, insightful, and all the other superlatives.

“Oh, no. Not You Again!”

If this blog was sentient this is what it would be thinking. At least, this is the printable version of what it’d be thinking. I set this space up back in 2010 after the most brilliant community I was part of imploded in a shower of ‘couldn’t give a fuck’ by the administrator. My friends and I were digitally homeless as a result. Some went out into the stars, some went to fuckfacebook, others to sites that soon after followed in the footsteps of the dinosaur, and some came here. Within a year, we’d all stopped blogging.

I don’t know how committed I am to this. I’d like a place to park my earlier attempts at writing, and I don’t mind talking to myself. Maybe later I’ll record, for dubious posterity, how I came to be here. It’s a 16-year saga of fun, international co-operation, a lot of batshit craziness, and a hat tip to the authors, bloggers, and friends who’ve inspired me.

Here we go. Again.