Writings

Writing, smoking 

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So, I’m currently sorting through junk in the garage and came across a book I compiled over several years (I’ll get some extracts up).

I found this charming gem I wrote one night working for tesco 

So that’s 
CANCER STICK

cancer stick

Three in one

It’s gets us all, 

So have your fun.

Smoke it hard 

Drag it deep

In that time my solace keep 

You have killed me 

I feel the bite

Swelling now

My lungs are tight 

Well isn’t that just lovely.

Writings, the sad story of Fred. Another short story for the girl.

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So, after a few poo related short stories I was tasked with writing a story without the girl suffering

The Sad Story of Fred

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This is Fred. Fred is a clown. He isn’t a very happy clown, in fact he’s a very sad clown.
He is sad because he cannot get a job.
He went to work at a bank, but sprayed the manager with his flower.
He went to work on a farm, but the pigs kept stepping on on his clown shoes.
He got a job on a lifeboat but the waves kept washing off his make up.
He tried to be a mechanic but clown cars always fall apart.

Fed up and sad he went to see his friend Eleanor. Eleanor was a stinky monkey so she didn’t need a job, she just lived in the zoo with the other animals.
“I can’t do any jobs Eleanor,” cried Fred.
“Ooh ooh aah aah!” Replied Eleanor (because monkeys can’t speak English of course). Then she threw some poo at him.
“Oh no, I can’t even visit the zoo,” wailed Fred.
“HAHAHA, HEEHEEHEE!” Laughed a man in a funny jacket, “that was funny, are you a clown?”
“Yes,” sobbed Fred, “but I can’t get a job.”
“Have you tried working for the circus? I am the ringleader of one.”
“I have now, can I have a job?”
“Yes.”
Fred went to work at the circus where he made lots of friends and had lots of fun.

This one surprised her, the use of her name initially made her very grumpy, until she realised I was tricking her.
Had it not been for the poo throwing then all would have been good

Unfortunately it was another negative comment

I do not like this story

Writings, another short story for the girl

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So, after the negative comments I received from the girl following my previous short story, I put a little actual thought into it and tried harder for her.

There once was a bridge.
This was the home of a troll called Smudge. He was a very sad troll because his bridge was over a smelly river.
Everyday Smudge and his toad friends saw poo float past. Smudge decided that enough was enough and he packed a suitcase to find out where the poo was coming from.
After a long journey with a few adventures (which you will hear about another time) he discovered the poo was coming from Eleanor the Smelly One’s house. Smudge made a plan.
One night he snuck into Eleanors bedroom and stuck a cork in her bottom, then he returned home to his bridge.
A few weeks later there had been no poo and Smudge was much happier. One day he heard a loud explosion and wondered what it was so he bought a newspaper.
Eleanor had not been able to poo and so her belly had burst like the Hoover in Mousehunt. Hazel and Pete had been visiting and got covered in poo.
Pete ate some.

The end.

This time I got another

not well done

But she was enjoying it far more, at least until she realise it was her that was the disgusting one.

Writings, a short story for the girl

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So, over Christmas the girl became obsessed with Enid blyton after reading the faraway tree, personal favourite of mine when I was younger. She then kept nagging for us to write her stories, so I did.

Once upon a time there was a strange man called Pete. He was a bit weird.
One day he was loading some boxes into his van and scratching his bottom when he tripped over and got his finger stuck up his bum.
Hazel the Witch thought this was so funny that she weed her pants. Pete was being weird and tried to drink it so Hazel kicked him in the bottom.
This made his whole hand get covered in poo. He was still being weird and ate some of it.
Hazel thought he was disgusting and was sick on his head. Pete started to cry and then pooed his pants.

The end.

The girl did not approve, and gave me the following comment

not well done

Another of her obsessions being marking things like her teachers.

Mr Led Zep

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So, another pub observation.

Mr Led Zep.
That’s not his name of course. Nobody knows his name, Mr Led Zep they call him. Not to his face of course, there all just too embarrassed to tell him they don’t know his name.
He’s been drinking here for years, they just don’t know his name.
Mr Led Zep they whisper- still wearing that old red t-shirt.
Mr Led Zep they say- still wearing those tiny shorts.
Mr Led Zep they call- he’ll have his coins.
Mr Led Zep they whisper- still wearing that battered blue cap.
Mr Led Xep they say- he’ll have his pint.
Mr Led Zep they point- still hasn’t had a hair cut.

As he selects his songs- the same song every night.
Two pounds in the machine
sip
Led zeppelin- whole lotta love
sip sip
Iron maiden- run to the hills
sip sip sip
AC/DC- whole lotta Rosie
sip sip sip sip
Guns and roses- night train
sip sip sip sip sip
Cyndi Lauper- true colours.
gulp gulp gulp

Nobody knows why the fifth, nobodies ever asked. They play along of course
“Good choices”
“Awesome”
“Yeah man”

Five songs over and he makes his way out the door
“There goes Mr Led Zep”
“Same bloody songs”
“Can’t he get a haircut”
“Can’t he get new clothes”
“Can’t he play something else”
“Why that last song”
Nobody knows him
He’s a laughing stock.

Another good night at the pub he thinks, crashing onto his worn old sofa. It’s been another long day.
Sitting up he catches sight of her picture.
Her.
The love of his life. The pain as fresh as the day…
The wedding day.
Married, happy.
His choice of DJ, her choice of first dance.
Last dance
Only dance
Her choice of song- he’d laughed.
He loved her, she got her way.
She always got her way, she was perfect.
Until the drive to the airport.
Sideswiped
The car flipped
The ‘irony’ of the protective barrier crushing the life from her chest.

Every day since he’d done his days work, earning his money, enough to pay his small flat. Change left over for a couple of pints and a few songs on the jukebox. Four of his, one of hers. Of theirs.
Every day he thought of ending it, of joining her.
When he was truly alone that’s exactly what he would do.
In the meantime he still had his friends in the pub.

Writings, In the wild

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So, another quick scribble in I the pub led to this.

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Ordinarily it would have been easy to turn what looks like eyes into a bigger picture, but I was hit by some writing inspiration.

The eyes shone in the torchlight, reflecting it back at me as I tried to see a head to hold them. I couldn’t see one but I could easily imagine one, with a huge mouth, and huger teeth.
Since the fire at the lab things had changed and humans were prey, and right now I was being hunted. The eyes were watching, they hadn’t pounced, which could only mean the creature wasn’t hunting alone. Or worse, it was a part of a full pack of something monstrous.
Ah yes, the lab fire. Nobody knows what was being done there, but there hasn’t been any power since it burned to the ground. And the land is suddenly so much more dangerous. Aside from the creatures and the lack of food and power, it’s the humans that are the biggest threat. Scavengers aren’t an issue, that’s become the norm, it’s the power brokers, those who had access to the supplies we all need; batteries, food, water. The time they spent hoarding and pricing us out made them greedy and ruthless, now they’ll do anything for power.
Of course, even amongst the arseholes there’s those that were already ruthless bastards, they essentially rule the land now. At least in the day when they dare come out. Right now it’s dark, so they’ll be safely locked away in their well stocked and armed holds, whilst the rest of us scrape around for what we can get whilst praying nothing catches our scent.
A snapped twig drags me from my reverie, another creature to the right. Moving slowly I inch towards my bag, fumbling with the catch as the reflected eyes circle around. I ignore the gun, the ammunition ran out long ago, instead taking the only other thing I can use as a weapon; lighter fluid. This was a lucky find a few days ago, digging through a looted shop I found a few bits and pieces that had been missed by previous visitors. A full canister of lighter fluid would have given me days of food in trade but right now survival was more important.
More snaps, moving in, I spray some fluid onto a branch and with a shaking flick of a lighter set it ablaze, illuminating a beast the size of a small car fifteen feet away. It’s stealthy approach interrupted it pauses as two more slightly smaller creatures join it from my flanks.
Three.
I’d expect at least one more, but right now I have to decide, wait or act.
I act.
A stream of fluid shoots from the can, through the flame and ignites, striking the lead creature square in the face. Unleashing a squeal it leaps back, the others now also cowed into postponing their attack. Pacing back and forth they move out of the range of the fire and out of the light. Thrusting the branch into the fire I’d been building I let the blaze rise with a little boost from the canister I’m holding,
I doubt I’ll be sleeping tonight.

Writings, infallible

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So, this is one I started when I was in the cinema, it was going to bookend a selection of broken stories I started and never finished. Currently Iv only found this, the start of the first book end, the ending and the broken tales haven’t been found yet.

He was injured.
The injuries may as well have scrolled across his augmented helmet lenses such was his awareness of his perfect form.
And his pain.
Broken right leg
Torn groin
Snapped left Achilles
Shattered sternum
Dislocated right shoulder- state of arm unknown
Left arm crushed
Not to mention the minor injuries not normally of concern.
He was broken.
But he was Astartes.
He was a Space Marine.
And space marines are infallible.

I really hope to find the remainder of this soon