Welcome to my blog. The home page will always display the most recent blog post so please use the tabs to navigate your way around. Keep up to date by visiting the 'News' area. The 'Short Stories' area and the ‘Flash Fiction’ area contain everything produced thus far, and comments would be much appreciated! Be sure to check out the 'Three Words' area that will explain how you can get involved in influencing the written work to come, or for details on contributing your own artwork visit the 'Artists' area! You can read my 'Blog' (in the truer sense), additional content is also available via the 'Other' section and don't be afraid to leave a comment in the 'Guestbook'. Thanks for visiting!

Friday, 9 June 2017

A Comic's Story - The Comic Book Artist - Punch Line

Flash Fiction / Micro Fiction
Length - 100 words each

Three pieces written for the competition theme 'A Comic Story'.
* 'The Comic Book Artist' finished 3rd place in the competition!


A Comic's Story

I wake, my hotel room startling in its simplicity. I panic. Where am I? I check the date - it's the fifteenth. 'Oxford' I think, and breathe easy.

Almost three-hundred miles and seven hours later I croak my opening witticisms, birthing worded wings for thirty minutes in a complex, dazzling display. The social butterfly. Everybody's friend. Kind of funny really. I shed them there, and crawl back to my hotel room alone.

I wake, my hotel room startling in its simplicity. I panic. Where am I? I check the date - it's the sixteenth. 'Newcastle' I think, and breathe easy.

The Comic Book Artist

'Be ready,' The Hero whispers to his freshly inked nemesis, staring up the nostrils of The Artist. 'We're looking more and more like him with every panel. Our time will come.'

The Artist stares down at the outlined empty face of The Bystander, caught up in the collateral damage of the fight. 'Cameo?' he thinks, 'why not? It's good enough for Stan Lee.'

Image mirrored, the pen fights back. He cannot escape 'The Pull'.

He wipes debris from his eyes. Above him, The Hero and The Villain loom before a battle ruined sky. 'Oh the things you've put us through...'


Punch Line

'Quick, Mum! Grampy's fallen off the sofa!'
                The poor boy wants to laugh but he's worried, so I bark it out for him. He's shocked, but he joins me and I hang an old arm around his shoulders.
                'Why are we laughing Grampy?'
                'We call it slapstick comedy.'
                'But I'm young. You're old.'
                'The pointy-tailed man downstairs doesn't discriminate. You fall, we laugh, and you grow taller. At my age people forget it's funny. The man whispers his own joke instead and we shrink towards its terrible punch line. Go ahead and laugh, please, I'm not ready to hear it.'



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Sunday, 14 May 2017

Playing the Fool - Troll Country - Not Okay

Flash Fiction / Micro Fiction
Length - 100 words each

Three pieces written for the competition theme 'Fool'.
* 'Not Okay' finished 2nd Place in the competition!


Playing the Fool

David rolled his eyes as Jon argued, shaking the will above their father's hospital bed. 'An equal share, Dad? He's leaving your company to work for a charity for chrissakes! That fool clearly doesn't understand how money works!'

Their father politely declined revision.

'... unless a listed beneficiary should have fallen on hard times and is unable to command an income. Under such circumstances the entire sum reverts to the aforementioned in order to support-'
                'The entire sum!?' Jon balked.
                David nodded his head. 'A little while working for nothing has given me everything. Not such a fool now, eh?'

Troll Country

'Through there?' Mandrag said, 'I don't know, Sir. It's marked here on the map as 'Troll Country'.'
                'Don't be a fool.' His master said, snatching the aged parchment. 'Lazy cartography is all. You've heard of 'Here be Dragons?' It's just a local variation.'

Three deformed hulking brutes roared appreciatively as they stripped the cooked flesh from another human leg, the discarded femur taking its place upon an ivory pile some two feet high.
                Sir Geoffrey watched from their hanging metal cage with sunken eyes. 'I bet nobody ever leaves this place.'
                Mandrag quietly tore the map to shreds. 'Someone did.'


Not Okay

Caught adrift in a supermarket aisle, grief, pure and simple, washed through me like a wave. I hastily concocted cover and dropped some canned food onto my foot.
                'These damned hands!' I said, forcing a smile through freshly salted cheeks. 'Help me pick these up will you?'
                'No.' My son's eyes were smouldering. 'You're not hurt. You're crying. Again. You're not fooling anyone,' he sighed. 'Just admit it.'
                Ten years young and freshly motherless, it should be me keeping him afloat. An approaching sea of faces whispered their symphony of sympathy.
                Worse. They circled with concern.
                'I'm fine.'



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