Getting old is hell, especially when parts start to fall off. Yesterday and today were two long trips and they drove home the fact that I'm not 18 any more. Heck the wrong side of 40 would be good too... The first was needful because it turns out, I'm blind as a bat That might … Continue reading Getting Old is Hell
I’m still looking for my carpet… Gordon knew where it was. I think it’s on the floor…
It’s been…challenging, to say the least. My godmother died and left me all her books and china. It was very nice of her, but she was 93 and an avid collector of both, so I have a lifetime’s collection.
It arrived this week. Seventy-one very large packing cases which are now the main feature of my living room and tower over me to the ceiling. There is a carpet under there somewhere, I remember it, it was a nice one my brother brought me back from Afghanistan. I hope to see it again one day.
And, of course, I said I would re-publish “The Tattooed Tribes” this week, not anticipating the chaos that now surrounds me. However, I managed and it is now on Amazon.
Ecology, the environment and conservation are one of my main concerns. Gerald Durrell convinced me we needed to take care of our planet and its wildlife when…
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A trip with Gran and an unusual take on a classic movie…
Surprisingly I managed to reload the “Solemn Curfew” collection without a hitch despite being a bit distracted at the moment. My dearly loved god mother passed away recently and left me her books, all 4000 of them. I defy anyone to behave in a normal and rational fashion when faced with that many books. And these aren’t paper backs, they are a life time of careful and considered collecting. They arrive next Thursdays – there maybe demands for walls to be demolished to make room.
However, back to the obscenity of the title. This is another story about my grandmother. Whatever else could be said of her, and there is much which could be said, she was never boring.
To Mother it was an idea of genius, but my ten year old self was filled with consternation. And, glancing…
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It's been a month of hell... to put it mildly. No, I'm not looking for sympathy because some of this is convoluted which simply adds to the stress. I scored 793 on the Holmes and Rahe Stress scale. It's no damn wonder I suddenly developed the tic of tapping my right foot. The right foot … Continue reading A Month of Hell
If you have seen “A Solemn Curfew and Other Dark Tales” and my previous post here “The Tattooed Tribes”, you could be forgiven for thinking you’ve come to two different blogs.
And if you’ve read any of the short stories I have put on here, you might even think three different ones.
No, folks, they’re all me!
Hence the title above. I am the crazed bat who writes dark stories about men having sex with the garden pond, but I’m also the one who writes scifi/fantasy adventure stories, preferably with soldiers. As I have said elsewhere, I like soldiers, but that shouldn’t be taken to mean I stand on street corners in garrison towns.
I’m also the one who wants to write about the everyday life, which is why you got “My Son, My Son..”
Of course I’d love all of you to like all three of me, but I know…
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I will be re-launching “The Tattooed Tribes” next month, we’re just sorting out a new cover and a few other things and it will be back on Amazon.
I don’t know how many of you out there are concerned about the environment, but for me it is probably the most important problem we as a species are facing. “The Tattooed Tribes” is about a world soon to face the sort of damage we’ve done to our own beautiful planet, but they have the chance and the will and the means to stop it.
I didn’t want to write a sermon, so I wrote a sic-fi/fantasy an adventure story full of tattooed warriors, tribal maidens, deep green woods and huge flowing rivers instead.
I added couple of heroes – Jon Harabin, a Master Traveller in the Tribal Liaison Guild, single, 30ish, good looking?…maybe, but a tough, seasoned woodsman who is a fighter and a diplomat.
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I think every generation has its favourite Doctor, for me it was Tom Baker. The floppy hair, the wild eyes and the huge smile all made him different and exciting. I even knitted myself the scarf, all nineteen feet of it. No sooner was it finished than my kid brother nicked it and refused to give it back. He wore it for years and still has it, packed away from the moth to be an heirloom for his son. (And he says I’m the insane one in the family).
Back to Dr Who. If you read my blog post “The Black Bat of Night”, you will know that I was a winner in a short story competition run by SFX magazine. It was while I was still wandering around on cloud nine and telling complete strangers all about it, I got an email from a publisher called Big Finish, they…
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Before I tell you about the next story I need to share a few things. First to quote Terry Pratchett,
“A marriage is always made up of two people who are prepared to swear that only the other one snores.”
Second, despite what a certain person claims, I did NOT write this as revenge, I was just inspired.
Definitely not a revenge story.
And yes, I do know what a heavy cold and a medicinal night cap can do.
For three nights running.
Having cleared that up, the story…I’ve called this one “Hush a Bye”, from the old traditional lullaby, the scary one about hanging ababy in a tree and waitingfor enough wind to send itcrashing to the ground. Don’t believe me?
“Hush a bye baby, on the tree top.
When the wind blows the cradle will rock;
When the bow breaks, the cradle will fall,
And down will…
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We are getting there, only one more story to tell you about after this. That person cheering at the back…I know who you are and there will not be cake for you later.
This one started out as a bit of flash fiction, but like Topsy it had a bit of a grow. If you chuck the following in a large bucket and give them a bit of stir…
- Water, obviously, in this case the sea and some in fish tanks.
- The man who lives upstairs
- Assorted marine fauna
- The girl with long curly hair who lives downstairs.
When well mixed, pour the whole thing out and you have “The Girl in the Water”
Back in 2007 I was sitting at my computer whinging about rejection slips (and who could blame them, when I read those early efforts again, I would like to climb inside myself and give me a good rinse round with a mild bleach solution), when my first born wandered in with a copy of SFX magazine.
“Why, mama dearest, do you not enter one of your short stories in this fine publication’s annual completion?” he said.
Or words to that effect. There was probably something about helping him pay for said magazine, but I forget.
I did a bit of whinging about nothing I did being good enough and being a total failure and would he like to make me a cup of coffee to sooth my blighted hopes?
He gave ne the look.
Seriously, where do kids learn to do that? Do they come out of the womb…
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