Writings, epilogue/prologue

Posted on

Steve Griffin looked at the crumpled note in his hands and felt a moment of uncertainty.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his grey surroundings. He had always hated dank Grent with its dirty, crowded slums. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel unstable.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Dan Watson. Dan was an incredible failure with worry lines and greying hair.

Steve gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. His face was etched the same way, more so. And the greys were only held back by a greater disposable income than the man in the street. They’d been friends once, with incomes identical due to the shared responsibilities they’d held.

The storm teased at the window frame, desperate to enter, filling Steve with an unexplained nervous sense of premonition.

As Steve stepped outside and Dan came closer, he could see the grim, narrow smile on his face- clearly this had taken courage, and likely a more than healthy dose of whatever shine the slums had served up this week.

“I am here because I want forgiveness,” Dan declared in a brave tone, the emotion behind it not affected by the storm. His hands clenched and unclenched, knuckles turning white and back again

Steve looked back, still fingering the crumpled note, “Dan, I couldn’t stop you,” he replied, “not then, maybe now…” He trailed off, unsure what to say next

They looked at each other with eyes full of memory, of shared experiences, bad some, but mostly good. At least until more recent times.

Steve studied Dan’s worn clothes and fixed face. Eventually, he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you forgiveness,” he explained, in pitying tones.

Dan’s face relaxed a moment before a hardness set in, his body tensing with the disappointment.

Steve turned at the sound of gunfire in the distance, the locals were out late tonight. Turning back he caught a glimpse of Dan’s long coat as he disappeared into the storm. His head dropped, mind filled with what-ifs and regrets,

Turning back to his home he knew things weren’t going to improve anytime soon, he’d need something stronger than tea to calm himself tonight.

Writings, medieval draft two

Posted on

Seimon looked out over the battlefield below, taking in everything. The smell of blood, tinny on the wind mingling with the rancid stink of emptied bowels. The sight of hundreds, possibly thousands of bodies, most dead, all interlinked with ally and foe alike. The sound of pitiful cries from the few remaining wounded, crying out for help that wasn’t coming in time. But nothing matched the feeling inside. Survivors guilt, bitter and acidic on his tongue, the joy of living offering no relief from what he’d escaped.

He’d been sat in the local tavern when they’d come for him. Sat amongst his fellow farmers, shoulders tightly packed on the worn benches, every man onto his third or fourth pint of ale. That was pretty standard in Mapleshear, the gold of Vaddon Bonner stretching only to minimal wages, but the crops abundant enough for a healthy intake of beer. Long days tilling, ploughing and digging the land built up quite a thirst. Once darkness fell there were few who didn’t pile into the tavern for their share. Seimon lifted his to his mouth, his fingers tingling as the pains of the day began to wane, comfortable despite the crowded room and smell of turned earth and laboured sweat.

A bell rang and echoed from the rafters of the tavern as noise rose from outside. After cursory glances at the thick door everyone returned their attentions to their drinks and conversations, before the noisy entry of a small group of men drew their attention back. Clanking heavily five armoured men stood to attention at the entrance to the tavern ahead of the entry of another man, this ones dress far higher quality than the men around him.

“Good evening, good sirs,” he declared in a confident, firm voice, “I am Bedwyrr Stackpole, owner of these lands and Lord of all the people in it.”

A grim silence settled over the crowded room, the older men knowing what was coming, the younger sensing something wrong. Seimon was amongst the latter, barely out of his teens he could only fear the worse as the man continued.

“News may have reached your settlement that the throne of your king Iestyn sits empty in the great city of Brodon. As rightful heir to this throne I march upon the city to lay my claim. In anticipation of resistance to my passage to the throne I hereby declare the law of conscription upon every third man of fighting age. At dawn you will present yourselves to my officers in the marketplace and selections will be made. My force has made camp and is thirsty, therefore this beer will be claimed for there needs this evening. Return to your homes and assemble tomorrow.”

More clanking followed as the men vacated the doorway, to be replaced by a stream of more lightly armoured men, marching in and claiming the tapped barrels. Voices began to break into the stunned silence, as the shock set in and the more vocal youngsters began to protest.

“Quiet down lads,” called out Sion Mattick, tavern keeper, “finish up your drinks and head home, no use protesting.”

The older patrons were already on the move, setting their mugs down and making their way to the exits past the struggling soldiers, a single voice called out,

“It’s well and good that Mattick,” it was Meic Wren, village weasel, “you’re too old to be dragged off to war, it’s no concern for you.”

“Now, lad.” Sion stepped from behind his bench, his pained limp drawing everyone’s gaze, “you’re right, thanks to this, and my ageing limbs I won’t be called. But I’ll have to watch is the rest line up for their deaths in fights they didn’t ask for. In lands they don’t call home. For glories and rewards they’ll not see.”

Wren opened his mouth a few times, looking for a response before the keeper cut him off,

“See, I’ve been there son. I was dragged off myself many years ago, on another damned quest. Battle after battle I survived. Battle after battle I saw friends die. Battle after battle I lost more of myself to the slaughter at the end of my blade. Wishing for the end, but to fearful to ever let it happen, until finally my moment came. A rusting blade cut through my leg, near taking it off.”

He paused, his face full of pain, fear, and a tortured grimace only a veteran soldier would recognise, “but I didn’t die, did I. No. No I had to return, to watch generations grow to be your fathers, and the next generations to be yours, hoping for the next to be your children. Knowing sooner or later the call would come again. So don’t tell me it’s well and good. It isn’t. It’s going to be damned hard for everyone who stays, but nothing compared to those leaving are going to go through. And worse again for those who return. Now drink up, return to your women and say your goodbyes.”

Tears were falling from faces all around the room, men Seimon wouldn’t have believed capable. The older men continued their exit, most herding the youngsters along with them. Seimon had no woman to return to, there were a few girls he’d had moments with but none he wanted to see tonight. Instead he gulped down his ale, it felt thick and rotten now, not doing anything to help his dry throat now.

At dawn a weary trudging was accompanied by tears, cries and a few nervous laughs as bravado did its best to keep the men advancing. Seimon joined the throng heading to the centre of the settlement, he kept his head low, not interested in conversation now. It had been a long night. Traditionally a belly full of beer knocked him out as soon as he lay on his straw bed. Instead he’d lay awake, his stomach churning and brain imagining an endless series of gruesome deaths and injuries. Shaking off the memory he told himself there was only a one in three chance, he could be back in the fields by lunch.

As he entered the marketplace his senses felt wrong, the usual hustle of traders and villages not present, instead just loose ranks of farmers stood ahead of the more disciplined ranks of Lord Stackpole’s force. Lord Stackpole himself stood upon a platform at the edge of the central square under a row of swinging bodies. Seimon stopped, the men behind cursing gruffly as they were forced to pull up short, then cursing more violently as they saw what he saw. The bodies were recognisable as villagers, men who’d drank and toiled with them every day. Men who’d been in the pub last night. All men of fighting age. All dead.

“Move along,” a soldier in a rough leather jerkin shoved his way to them, pushing the men forward until their legs carried them on.

Seimon joined the growing crowd, the churning feeling in his stomach becoming nausea as it strove to empty itself. More men joined him, women crowding around the edges of the marketplace in the same way they did at the annual meat harvest.

“Gentlemen, good morning,” called out Lord Stackpole once it was clear everyone was assembled, “you’ll see above me the product of cowardice. Men I’m sure you’ll recognise, they attempted to escape the lawful conscription and paid with they’re lives for doing so. Unfortunately these fourteen men have given me doubts as to your loyalty to your Lord, and so in anticipation of future failed desertions the conscription will be every man of fighting age here….”

Seimon heard no more as outraged shouts and catcalls drowned out Stackpole’s voice. Numb shock and horror turned that lump in his stomach to something far more fluid, his throat burned as he coughed up the contents, splattering the men around him with its rancid odour. The reaction was minimal, he wasn’t the only one, and outrage at the pronouncement far outweighed a bit of vomit on your clothes.

The arrival of more soldiers had settled the protests and the men had been marched through the settlement onto the open fields and separated into smaller groups. One by one the groups were joined by a handful of soldiers and details were taken. Seimon scribbled his initial onto the paper, not surprised to see the majority of squiggles were just that, random marks. His aunt had taught him the basics of reading and writing before dying many winters past, it wasn’t much use to a farmer, but she’d said it was a skill for the future.

He had been conscripted to a unit of spearmen in the second reserve for Lord Stackpole’s army- reluctantly of course. The unit had been given a few days (A few days? I would think that the higer-ups would want more experiened soldires in even the most desperate situations but this is not my area of expertise so I could be wrong on this one…) drilling practice before the long march into Kriils. It was on the grasslands a few miles short of the border town of Graycott the army finally halted, weapons (What kind of weapons?) distributed and units fed. After a short rest the call to order had run through the assembled troops and Seimon had taken his place to march again. But as the army crested the hill above the town a terrifying sight was revealed. Lord Stanlow, rival of Lord Stackpole for the vacant throne, was waiting with a host far in excess of Lord Stackpole’s.

Writings, medieval draft one

Posted on

Seimon looked out over the battlefield below, taking in everything. The smell of blood, tinny on the wind, mingling with the stink of fear, sweat and far worse muck. The sight of hundreds, possibly thousands of bodies, most dead, all interlinked with ally and foe alike. The sound of pitiful cries from the few remaining wounded, crying out for help that would likely not be in time, and almost certainly not enough. But nothing matched the feeling inside. A feeling of guilt, mixed with relief.

He had been conscripted to a unit of spearmen in the second reserve for Lord Stackpole’s army- reluctantly of course. The unit had been given a few days drilling practice before the long march into Kriils. It was on the grasslands a few miles short of the border town of Graycott the army finally halted, weapons distributed and units fed. After a short rest the call to order had run through the assembled troops and Seimon had taken his place to march again. But as the army crested the hill above the town a terrifying sight was revealed. Lord Stanlow, rival of Lord Stackpole for the vacant throne, was waiting with a host far in excess of Lord Stackpole’s.

Rushed orders had the invading force take position whilst Stackpole’s honour guard accompanied him to the parley. From his position towards the back of the force Seimon could see little, but murmurings and rumours made it back to them eventually- this was an unbeatable force, outnumbered five to one, some rumours suggested far more. As the honour guard returned a flag was raised and the first troops began to advance, swordsman and militia moving to engage the advance elements of Lord Stanlow’s host. Seimon’s fellow spearmen moved forward on commands to take up the vacant space ahead and a cold feeling of dread entered the stomach of every man in the unit.

An hour after the first advance, nobody had details of the initial contact, but as wave after wave of soldiers were pressed forward, and the entire first reserve was committed to battle, the second reserve finally advance to a position in which they could see the massacre below. It was clear casualties had been heavy on both sides, but the steady stream of units advancing from this side of the plain was dwarfed by the numbers across the battlefield. It was at this point a cavalry force arrived on the East of the field, a mix of light and heavy horse advancing at a gallop into the flank of Lord Stackpole’s infantry. Lacking heavy cavalry of his own Lord Stackpole had immediately ordered his light horse to reinforce and waved the second reserve onto the field.

The reserve began to trudge down the field, swords ahead with spears following up. The light cavalry ahead reached the reinforcing cavalry of Lord Stanlow and was quickly repulsed. Unfortunately the line of retreat was blocked by the advancing swordsmen. Confusion hit the combined units as the cavalry of the enemy charged them. At this point men from Seimons unit faltered, some dropping their weapons and retreating, whilst others merely hesitated, unsure what to do. As the line became stretched, it was clear to Seimon the heavy cavalry would be upon them shortly. Throwing down his spear he quickly turned and joined his fellow recruits in fleeing.

As he reached his armies lines Seimon could see a furious Lord Stackpole hacking fiercely around him with his longsword, cutting down conscripts as the fled past him. One, clearly more travelled than the rest, dodged a swing from the mighty sword and planted a knife through a gap in Lord Stackpole’s armour, leaving it up to the hilt under his armpit. Caught by surprise Lord Stackpole sank to his knees as more men ran past to the safety of the trees behind. Seimon stopped ahead of his Lord, feeling no duty to him, instead feeling a raw anger as the potential for death dawned on him. He reached down to lift the greatsword, only to discover it’s weight was beyond his ability to swing. Abandoning the idea he instead reached for the knife- still embedded inside Lord Stackpole- and twisted, before tearing it out and pushing the man to the ground with his boots.

A cheer rose from around him as he moved into the trees, pocketing the knife as he went.

Now, some time later he watched with barely a hundred men as the victorious troops of Lord Stanlow looted the battlefield. The guilt at his murder of Lord Stackpole- aided of course by another whom he’s not seen since- combined with relief at surviving the battle. The relief was cooled by the knowledge it could only be a matter of time before the soldiers stripping corpses ahead were reformed and sent for the survivors. A fast retreat home seemed pointless given the lack of horses. Some men had left, but the majority held on, seemingly looking to Seimon for leadership or at least guidance since his killing of their former master. Seimon offered nothing, being no more than a farmer presented with an opportunity to slaughter a weakened man, he had no experience to draw on. No plan, no idea what to do next. Stackpole’s honour guard had remained with the group, offering no threat to Seimon, despite their role being that of protection, a role in which they had clearly failed.

Writing, origins.

Posted on

“He was a Hero, mum.”

“No, son listen to me…”

“I don’t have to listen, I know. Ok. I know. He was a Hero. My dad was a hero.”

Actually in a quite literal sense that’s exactly what he was. My dad was a Hero, a Superhero in fact. You’ll know the name, The Masked Avenger, Hero of this city. A real life Superhero. Nobody knows the details but he started as a vigilante, seeking revenge for something, before an accident turned his will for revenge into something far more powerful. All kinds of abilities have been witnessed over the years as he’s stopped numerous criminals and villains.

But that was all over.

He was gone.

Dead, The Masked Avenger. My Dad apparently, now gone. And Mum was trying to tell me he wasn’t a Hero;

“I know this is hard to understand, and I know it’s a lot to take in at once, but he was no hero.”

“Mum, he saved lives, stopped criminals, saved the city- probably the world- loads of times, how is he not a hero?”

“What is heroism, Jacob?”

My name. She used my name. She never uses my name unless I’m in trouble, or like now, she’s trying to get through to me.

“Heroism is exactly that Mum, saving lives, stopping the bad guys…”

“No, it isn’t. It’s really not. Do you not see? Being a hero is selfish, caring nothing for anyone else around you. It’s running blindly into danger because the safety of a stranger on the street is more important than the wellbeing of your family. Because jumping in the way of a bullet comes before earning a decent wage to pay the bills.”

“Is this about money Mum? Iv told you, I’ll postpone my uni application and get a job until the insurance money comes through.”

“Insurance money?” She scoffed, “what insurance company do you think pays out on a masked maniac being torn apart by another masked maniac?”

“Um..” I had nothing, my mind couldn’t conjure so much as a pun right now.

“None, Goldie.”

Back to her pet name for me now, as a child I’d had a mop of hair that looked gold in the sun. It was long darkened now but the name had stuck, for Mum anyway.

“I’m sorry, but there’s no money coming, he’s gone. And he’s left us with nothing.”

Hours later, I’m sat in his corner, where he sat every night. Had sat every night. Reading his books, painting little metal soldiers. There was a time I’d sat with him doing the same, but girls had put paid to that a few years back. He’d always say there after dinner, and now I sat here, mulling over everything Mum had said. Surely he was a hero. He saved countless lives, stopped so many disasters. I hadn’t known of course, to me he’d always been that boring dad painting his toys, but apparently once I was in bed he’d pull on his dark mask and head into the city. These extra curricular activities had also made him completely unemployable. Apparently employers didn’t look kindly on their staff rushing off to stop the latest madman trying to take over the planet. There were debts, the ordinary everyday debts, alongside a whole load of weird Internet orders for mysterious equipment.

Leaning back in the chair a glint at the desk caught my eye. A tin soldier coated in thick garish paint. I smiled, remembering the look on my dads face as I’d painted my first model. God it was awful, all detail morphed into a rainbow blob. I reached for it, feeling the heft in my hand before a grating noise dragged me from my reverie. The chair was sinking into the floor, too fast to get off, too slow for me not to tut- a secret entrance to your lair Dad, really? The chair stopped its descent and the light above slowly disappeared as a panel closed off the entrance. Strip lights clicked and flickered into life and the disappointingly sparse basement came into view.

With a laugh I stepped out of the chair and stepped towards the door back upstairs when something made me turn, a ‘feeling’ perhaps, though likely just a draught. The wall behind the chair was missing, revealing another room. Not the basement, but still not particularly impressive. It occurred to me that without a huge personal fortune the setting up of a secret base was really dependent on what you could scrape together, and now I could see where those debts Dad had left had come from.

A large desk sat against the far wall of the roughly carved room, a fairly expensive, but not top range, computer sat on the desk ahead of a wall of surveillance pictures of various villains I remembered from the news. Aside from the the room was empty. Dragging the chair into the room I sat at the desk and looked at the screen. A single flashing dot bleeped at me, an insistent pulse demanding my attention. Hitting enter brought up the standard ‘ENTER LOGIN‘ menu, so I typed in ‘BELGIUM.’ Predictable dad, his favourite place, and the location of so many very dull holidays as a child. The screen flickered and shut down and a light behind me cast my shadow against it. Turning I jumped, momentarily convinced I was under attack. But it wasn’t a man. It was the Suit. The Masked Avengers costume. My Dads evening wear.

Looking up at the navy and black body armour everything mum had said to me came back, conflicting with my childhood worship of a man I wished my dad could be. If only I’d known then, I had so many questions. And surely it would have stopped so many assumptions regarding my boring Dad.

Reaching up my hand passes through a light, the screen behind me flickering back into life and Dads voice echoing from the speakers.

“Jacob, my boy. You found it. I always knew you would. Presumably I’m not in the house or I’d have got to you before you set this recording off. Right now I’m getting the notification you’ve found your way into my modest lair and I’m on the way back to explain a few things.”

The recording stopped and Dads face hovered on the screen. No not stopped, he was just still. Watching? Waiting?

Time passed, the recent loss preventing me from looking away, glad for the opportunity to see his face one last time, I jumped as he began to speak again.

“I’m dead, Jacob. Of course, I don’t know that yet, but if I haven’t made it back here to see you then I’m gone. No doubt your mother has told you I’m no hero, just a lazy layabout with delusions of grandeur, piling on the debts and helping all but the people who matter. And I can’t disagree, she’s right. She always has been. But right now you need to make a decision, is it heroism or selfishness? Things are bad. Evil forces move against good and if I’m dead that’s one man less to stop them.”

A pause again, I glance back at the suit, I can’t visualise my dad inside it, but I guess that would be too easy.

“You can help, Jacob. But it has to be your choice. Put everything out of your mind. Your mums opinions, mine, everyone but your own. You have two options, YES or NO. Will you take up my mantle, don my mask?”

I glance down as two keys on the keyboard light up, the Y and the N.

“Take your time son, but make sure it’s your own decision, only you can make it and only you can deal with the consequences. Hit yes and you’ll begin a journey to replace me and save the world. Hit no and all this will go away, you can go back to your life and no doubt your mum will be happier.”

His face disappeared, the screen dark now. It seemed as though the only lights came from those two buttons infront of me. Warring emotions beat me up inside, pushing me one way and the other. I reached forward, finger hovering. As I tapped my choice the screen lit up again.

“My Son, I understand this will have been a hard decision, but believe me you’ve made the right one. The same choice I made. The majority matter more than the few. You must leave the house now, a cab will be waiting outside for you in a moment.”

At that the screen went dark again and I turned to find the suit off its rack, folded into a small package. Lifting it I exited the room, passing through the basement up to the kitchen and out the front. I didn’t stop to tell Mum where I was going, that conversation could wait.

I don’t know how, but the Taxi was indeed waiting for me, I got in the back with the package and the car pulled away. I took what felt like my first breath in an age, absorbing the smell of leather and cheap aftershave.

“Mr Jacob,” the driver interrupted my moment, ” a message for you sir.”

Taking an object from him I saw it was a recording device. I hit play and my fathers voice once again was heard

“Thank you son. Thank you for making the choice that serves the greater good. The driver will escort you to my real base of operations where you will find all you need. Please understand that your mother was always right, she always will be. Personal connections were my major weakness. You will be stronger than that given time. I’m sorry son.”

The recording clicked off as an explosion sounded behind me, my home detonating as my ride drove on…

Writing, Afterlife

Posted on

Apologies if this had been posted previously.

Awareness slowly returned to Sarah, low noises sounding simultaneously close by and far away, a dull grey glow seeping through her closed eyelids and a smell, not burning, but something previously burned seeped into her nostrils, reminding her of BBQs as a carefree young woman.

Where was she?

Where has she been?

Her toes tingled, pins and needles preventing any comfortable movement, the same in her fingers now. Her eyelids gently opened, morphing the grey glow into a dirty beige glow directly ahead. Lying on her back, unable to move, memory evading her grasp.

An itch on her thigh, fingers not reaching to relieve the discomfort.

Where am I?

How did I get here?

A slight flash of memory there, bright lights, burning sun, dust.


Yes, desert dust. She’d been on manoeuvres. That’s right, manoeuvres through the desert with her squad.

The pins and needles easing in her feet, she tries to shift, struggling to raise her body. Giving up, she lifted her head slightly to look around, the dirty beige was a constant on the ceiling and the walls, broken only by a nondescript brown door. In the corner sat a green chair, the cover torn, foam squeezing out like a fungus.

More flashes of memory began to return as she lowered her head again, walking in the heat. Sharing a joke with a squadmate. A click.

The door had opened and someone had entered, a tired looking suit matching tired eyes and drawn features, “Awake Miss Turner” he uttered, no emotion evident, “we’ve been waiting some time for you to regain consciousness.”

Her attempt to reply was cut off by her dry mouths unwillingness to utter anymore than a scratchy cough,

“I would rest your voice Miss Turner, the damage coupled with the morphine will limit your conversations for a while yet”

Damage? Morphine? What had happened?

Memories again drifted just out of reach, agonisingly close but nothing.

“Wha…” She attempted to scrape something out.

“Do not concern yourself with the details Miss Turner, they aren’t important just now.” Again, the flat emotionless tone, but something in her pleading eyes must have prompted him to give her some information, “you were on an afternoon patrol when one of your colleagues triggered an explosive mine, you were amongst those caught in the blast.”

A mine? Blast?

The door opened again, but Sarah was too busy reeling from the information she’d received to see who entered, hushed voices followed by the door closing again dragged her from her distraction.

“So, Miss Turner, I will leave you to your rest and return later.” The man exited the room leaving her alone, tears welling in her eyes as beige turned to grey before darkness closed in.

It was several days since Sarah had first woken up in that dingy room to discover she’d been injured in an explosion. The days hadn’t been easy, as she had discovered the blast had cost her both legs and an arm, with the second arm also severely damaged. She’d spent her time mostly in a daze, not able or willing to consider what this would mean for her future.

The man who’d visited on the first day had not given her any information on her squadmates, or indeed on anything beyond her physical self. Nor had he ever enquired as to her wellbeing, physical or mental. In fact, come to think of it he’d exchanged very few words, all directed to her without emotion before disappearing. Two other men visited twice daily, once to carry her out of her room to a very similar room, and again later to put her back.

Some time later, it could have been days, weeks or months a new visitor appeared.

“Well Miss Turner,” his voice carrying enough emotion to bring tears to her eyes, “how are you fitting in?”

That stopped the tears. Fitting in?

“Is that a joke?” She snapped back, “fitting in? How can I be fitting in, I’m dragged between two rooms with no news and no company. How do you think I’m ‘fitting in?'”

Tears returned to her eyes as the frustration of not being able to raise her arms to form inverted commas making sure of that.

“Now, Miss Turner, there’s no need for that, I simply meant to the current location,” his soft tone caught her attention, “in fact, we feel it’s time to move you on.”

“Home? I can go home?” Hope kindled

“Oh, Miss Turner, I must apologise. Mr Brown can be a little uncommunicative of the details. I’m afraid you aren’t returning home. Or rather.” He paused, long enough for hope to turn to despair, “you are home. You’ll be joining us now.”

Sarah launched herself out of her chair, he legs powering her across the room at this man, fists raised to strike him when her brain caught up with her body.



“Wh..where am I?”

“Come with me Miss Turner, you’re ready for the next stage…”

The open hand reached for Sarah’s, it’s touch tingling through her new limb and darkness fell once more.

Writing, smoking 

Posted on

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

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.

Posted on

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

The Sad Story of Fred


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?”
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

Posted on

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

Posted on

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

Posted on Updated on

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
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”
“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.
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.
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.