I do all sorts of things. Mostly badly. Mostly better than others. I tell stories. Occasionally, I lie.
Trivia. I always liked useless information. Like all the actors to have played Dr. Who (even though die hards will know the character was The Doctor), the names of the 7 dwarfs in the Grimm's fairy tale, and how many deadly sins there were. So, when I was asked (by the man himself, if man is the right word) "What is my name?" I knew what it wasn't. It wasn't Frankenstein. That was the name of his creator, but so many thought it the name of his monstrous offspring. Frankenstein's Monster was possibly the closest he'd ever come to an...
I held it at arm's length. Then I let the bell pull go, and somewhere deep within the old house a distant bell rang. The House had sinister rumours surrounding it. Some said it was Death's Door itself.
When the quiet aged man answered some time later, he just chuckled at my Halloween costume.
"I've got a Knock Knock joke for you." he sighed, "Knock knock."
It seems HE doesn't like being disturbed, but does have a sense of humour.
The disco ball was turning. Just in case there were any senses left unassailed, it was supported by several lasers and flashing coloured lights. The year 1-5 annual childrens Halloween Party was, to a Pagan, rather like finding yourself in a hall full of Jesus and Mohammeds running around with joke crosses and inflatable flashing Qurans celebrating how fun crucifixion is. Most of the parents, whom if they were seasoned veterans had preemptively dosed themselves with migraine pills already, had no real concern over whether the witches, ghosts, mummies and (for god sake!) Spidermen and other assorted superheroes had ANYTHING...
The disco ball was turning. Just in case there were any senses left unassailed, it was supported by several lasers and flashing coloured lights. The year 1-5 annual childrens Halloween Party was, to a Pagan, rather like finding yourself in a hall full of Jesus and Mohammeds running around with joke crosses and inflatable flashing Qurans celebrating how fun crucifixion is. Most of the parents, whom if they were seasoned veterans had preemptively dosed themselves with migraine pills already, had no real concern over the witches, ghosts, mummies and (for god sake!) Spidermen and other assorted superheroes had ANYTHING to...
This is the draft of my next novel
This is the scene/event that my subconscious created for me that caught my imagination, and made me believe it could be spun out into a whole book, because it was so good. SO good!
This is the ending I thought my agent/publisher would probably want me to finish it with. I don't actually like it that much.
This is something that happened in my actual life that is funny/poignant/unbelievable but I think will add gravitas and depth to the book.
This is the point when i start grasping at formula to pad...
The audience stared open mouthed at me. "Let's just do a thought experiment," I breezed into the debate, "and imagine that super powered people, Supers, actually exist. Telepathy, Telekinesis. Even flight. All that stuff. Imagine it was not just the subject of your lexically challenged, so called literature…"
This last bit was 'performed' as my fingers nimbly retrieved the hidden comic from a front row student's folder. The kid smiled sheepishly and impersonated a beetroot.
A voice from somewhere at the back answered him. "Then we should look in the asylums, Prof X…"
Prof X? The Mutant? That was a...
Trivia. They say Native Americans, and other native people of the World, believed photographs stole their soul, the marrow of their being. It comes up a lot in clever White people films and books, when they want to show Savages and Locals as ignorant and superstitious.
Actually, it is probably more true of the early photographers themselves, breathing Mercury fumes, day in day out, in producing their metal plate dageurotypes. The toxin building up, destroying the marrow in their bones, until they quickly faded as much in Life and Strength as their pictures eventually did. Easy pickings they were.
She was the most delicate girl in town. But looks could be deceptive. Ruth knew he was somewhere in the house. Unfamiliar surroundings would make it difficult for easy location of prey, but that wouldn't delay the inevitable. She was as confident as she could be that no help would come. The old place was too isolated; one of its charms. Ironically, it was what had attracted her to the place. The appeal of sole occupation. Nothing to disturb her work.
Fortunately, she'd made it to the Kitchen and its drawers of sharp, clean, very clean knives. Ms. (note the...
(19:43 to be exact, but the : had given up life years ago)
The red LEDs blinked their cycling transmission of temperature and time. Next to a pealing sticker announcing "Efe Tur" as the owner of this otobüs, no doubt more faded by continuous display, was our destination, Esenler, the second step to Istanbul and Atatürk Airport. Where check in had started already. If by some miracle, time could be made up, more steps would lead home, many hours later.
The journey to Izmit had been more enjoyable, as this one was an...
Until now, she'd never thought of herself as pretty. Angela wasn't your typical wallflower. Every so often someone would, for a brief moment, catch a glimpse of another world in her twinkling eye, or see into the hidden realms in the cornered smile of her lip.
Then either she or they would notice the unexpected revelation and it would vanish from sight and thought, and Angela would be plain old Angie. Small, quiet, of no consequence.
Of course that's not how she saw things, if "saw" was the right word. What Angela perceived, every day in fact, for everyone she...