Monday, March 10, 2014

Bits. & Bobs

Monday. Umbrellas discarded, their skeletal remains picked over by the wind.
We had beers with Keith and Gillian; all they could talk about was the weather. Almost as if we'd not noticed that constant rain. Keith's office has been underwater. Riverside, he used to brag. My attic office a winner, for once.

Tuesday. Sorting the bloody broadband, again. Hours, it was. On my knees under the desk. Later, in the pub, Keith made some crude joke. My glare cut him off. Had an early night.

Woke late on Wednesday. Slept fitfully. The sudden scatter of water thrashing against the window brought me round. No electric. Alarm clock dead. Had a meeting with my accountant. Keep my hood up on the bus. Slept fitfully.

Went out Thursday after work. Keith was there; Gillian wasn't. Didn't ask and he didn't say. Unusual. Forgot my mobile, and when I got home there was a green light blinking at me. I knew it was her before I'd even picked it up, its glowing screen casting a blue, sickly haze across my face. Deleted without listening.

Burned the toast for my late-night snack. Smoke alarm pinging loud; a thump from the flat above. I knew I'd pay for it at some point - loud music, noisy sex, high heels on the wooden floor, notes under the door threatening stuff.

I'd run out of butter anyway.


Thursday, May 09, 2013

A brief update

It appears, at first glance, that this blog has been abandoned. But no, it is perhaps best described as a hibernation.

In recent times, I've moved away from writing as a career - commercial writing, that is. When I do 'blog' it is usually about 'work' things and you can find it over at purplesime's ponderings.

I've also done a few side projects, which have seen me write for pleasure at a slower rate than I did before. One of these side projects is built around writing, but it too is in a hiatus due to work commitments and outside forces that have seen me shift the project in a slightly different direction. It will kick off again soon, but for now it's also in hibernation as I write more content for it. You can see the initial work at 100 Balloons.
You may wish to learn that this project is ongoing - and I'm doing it to learn more about writing, my own skills and different ways to publish fiction in the modern world. I'm enjoying it, but let's just say it's been harder work than I originally conceived it to be.

Another side project has taken on a life of its own, and that's My Earliest Memory. For a while, this was a major interruption in my life, which was incredibly pleasing. Now that it's back to being a slow burn project, so I can start to rekindle older blogs. Like this one.

Finally, work.
Yes, that word.
Once upon a time, I wrote adverts and content for brands. Then I discovered I didn't enjoy it as much as I used to and I so I altered my career. And I'm in the middle of that change. This is seeing me work harder than ever before as I learn a new set of skills (or hone them, as it were) and begin the transition from a single-minded creative into a more rounded digital consultant type.
This has also coincided with a decision to go freelance again. I find it's the easiest way to reinvent oneself.
That transition will never stop, but it may have slow periods.

In all, what you can take from this, should you read it, is that I'm happy. I'm writing longer pieces and publishing fewer stories online.

What does this mean for this blog?
Good question. This blog was a place to try stuff out, to get older things rewritten and out to a wider audience. I don't want to kill it. And I won't.
I hope that I will return to it in some form or other. Perhaps use it as a way of 'making' myself write something and put it out there. For no other reason that that's something the internet affords people (and increasingly machines).

Well, I've out-stayed my welcome on this post. Time to get on with all the things I've mentioned above.

Thursday, October 04, 2012

Thoughts

The sad people, everywhere.
Even their frowns trudge. Their grief flailing like untied shoelaces.
Every morning they fill up the train with their tears, flowing into stations before tributaries flow on to offices; lit by lights as artificial as my
sympathy for them.


Monday, August 20, 2012

Fiction WIP


It’s hard to put into words, how I’m feeling right now.
Maybe you’ve felt the same? Maybe not, I can’t say. Only you can compare your vantage point with mine.
I know I feel trapped. Snared like an animal. There is fear. There is panic. There is wondering how to get out of the situation I find myself in – and fast – without causing myself more pain. There is the recognition that I’ve caused this and that the fault lies with me. Not all of it, but a healthy dose; a significant proportion, which I’d estimate to be 90%. That’s my best guess.
It’s causing me to withdraw from the world, but also from those closest to me. Which isn’t good. Certainly not for me, although I justify my position by telling myself it’s good for them.
You’ve seen ‘Falling Down’, right? The Michael Douglas movie? Everyone has their breaking point. And I think I’m about to find mine.

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

A Few Lines


It's cold down here, behind the concrete spiral staircase
clinging like a leech to the bridge, with its drains permanently
blocked and its patina of grime
only London can produce. It's cold
down here.

Friday, August 03, 2012

A Bit Part - WIP


So, got me some writing done recently, for the Tales of the Alphabet. Nothing much, just a couple of hundred words I'm happy with and about six hundred I'm not. Thought it might be time for a preview. So, here it is. Just a tiny bit.

It was a cold night, the clouds low and a whipping wind keeping the streets clear of people. Just the odd car, here and there, traversing the city. It had rained earlier in the evening, great torrents of water that had caught people by surprise and sent them scurrying like rats to shelter under awnings and in doorways.

The kids, who, until dusk slung its shroud over the neighbourhood, had been playing on the dilapidated, broken sofa that sits outside Clarence Jeffries’ bungalow, ran out into the downpour. Shane said he could hear their parents calling them, voices strained against the drum of the rain on car roofs. I couldn’t, and said so. He got a huff up, as he often does, and retired to the bedroom. I heard the TV switch on, muffled male voices announcing sport time; the gentle thud of his sneakers as they fell from his feet to the wooden floor.

I took a pull from my Marlboro Red, slurped back the smoke.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Over at Tales From The Alphabet

Just posted this, a further snippet from the longer story.


Small Hands

Small hands, big thighs. That’s what he liked.
‘He’ being Stuart.
The lovable rogue, but only in his mother’s eyes and father’s pub-talk. Hated by most others. An imbecile, according to the graffiti scrawled crazily across the bus shelter up by Maud’s card shop. The gents’ toilets in the Hay & Scythe tell of other names that are not repeatable. Not out loud, in public. I have that on good authority, not having frequented them.
Stuart. A simple man with simple tastes. He likes to strike out, to hit; to offer a beating or two. Especially after a pint of Hamerton’s Ale. Definitely after several pints. Mostly to women. Almost exclusively, as it happens.
Certain types, though. Just those with small hands and big thighs.
Not that it’s an excuse I would offer up.

Read more here.