the Lost case of the Valentine Killer

the next Rainy Day Man will be called the Lost Case of the Valentine Killer. there will be a big gap between them, starting the next one around october.

I need to write more, but recently i haven't been doing that much. nothing has seemed to work, though recently i have done some small things. if i get this next RDM done then that should hopefully let me continue trying some new writing things.
i've put a deadline on the end of August, so that i have more of a reason to write it. also, hear is a short synopsis of the story:

in 1932, the Rainy Day Man took on the Valentine Killer, a mysterious attacker who leaves Love Letters with the victims. the case was never fully written down.
in 2011, a bookish Oxford Student found the original notes made by the Rainy Day Man, and she, with fellow Student Helter Skelter, aim to solve what may have been the Rainy Day Man's last case...

another thing

its actually quite hard to maintain a blog. to talk about yourself, I mean, on an internet page, for a bit.

here is another thing, something which is much more readable than if i was to tell you about my day for a bit. it was called, "the problem with heaven", though i am renaming it, to "another thing". i've put it in big words, to make the page look a bit different.

  I did not expect to be talking, as I find myself now, to the Angel Gabriel.
Mainly because I was sitting in a coffee shop, whilst on holiday to Florence, waiting for a friend. They said they'd be a few minutes, because they were looking at tops in some clothes shop, somewhere.
  Anyway, Gabriel was in the queue, and he appeared, as angels are meant to be, friendly. He got a coffee, and sat at the table next to me. He sat with his legs crossed, knee over knee, the way intelligent people do when he is about to explain his opinion.
  He got into conversation, quite quickly, about all the problems with heaven.
  “Heaven” said he, “is like a holiday. You are on holiday, am I right? ...Yes, I guessed so. Then you can agree, surely, that it is on a holiday where you do not really care about anything. On holidays you make big plans for what you will do when you get back. You might decide to join up to a club or a gym, to improve yourself, to be nicer, or, perhaps meaner to people, to go out more, or to stay in more. You might decide, in a moment of freedom from everything else, to spill your heart and soul out to someone special, because, you say to yourself, it doesn't really matter what will happen because of it. As the clerics and the priests have said, Heaven is “Eternal Bliss”, though they are both right and wrong about that. It is a bliss, but not for the reasons that they think it is. It is a bliss because ignorance, as the wise always say, is bliss. And the biggest ignorance is of consequences, and that is the eternal bliss.
  “The problem with heaven, you see, is that it is Touristy. Really tacky. You can't go wandering a few feet without bumping into a souvenir stand or some angel shouting about some offer on at a reastaurant, or pushing a sale onto some new and recently deceased tourist who hasn't fully gotten used to heaven yet. Everyone has cameras, but no one to show the pictures too. It's like a capital city; big, expensive, rude, uncaring. Beautiful, but in the end, dull.
  “The worse thing, is that you can never go home and join the gyms, the clubs, or the new social elites. You can never be nicer or meaner to anyone, and you can never go out more, or stay in more. You will never get the chance to talk to that special someone about all those things you've wanted to say but only now, after feeling on top of the world, have plucked up the gumption to do so.
  “There is a reason for this. It's not because god likes to play games with you, or lie or trick, it is because life is infinitely better than death. Heaven reminds you that you had it made back in the days when you could breathe, or speak, or feel. You could do whatever you wanted, and watch your dreams become realities. Heaven is not somewhere you would really want to be, because to want to be in heaven is a want to be dead. And that is not how all the living things were designed, millions of years ago.
  "We were all designed to have lots of smashing fun, all the time. We were given the free will, because we would only have the on chance to use it. The inevitable end, the nothing at the end of the trip, is supposed to be ignored and forgotten, because you aren't paying attention to it. Ignorance, as the wise man has already said, is bliss. But not too much bliss. The best thing about life is that you have the option to decide what to do, you have hopes, and dreams, and it is only in life that you can do something about them.”
  We continued talking. Apparently, he comes to Florence everyday for coffee. He has a love for the city, it's history, and its life, he says. After he had finished his rant about life and death, I offered to buy him another coffee, which he politely accepted. He picked up a crinkled, rolled up copy of the newspaper as I left the table.

my first poem: beware the spider men

You all have heard, I wouldn't doubt, the tales

of the spider men

the way they forge beneath the skin, the way we change

form us to them

it starts off small, the prick of jaws, the itch

beneath a spot of skin

but even then, you do not know, the muscles move,

the webs begin.

You may not see the needles sharp, the graying skin

the cuts and scars

the spiders slave over the webs, that once were bones

and lungs and hearts

it is not long before the cuts grow big, take shape

and from a maze

across your skin, your eyes, your mouth, and through

the cracks the needles raise

you cannot move; your arms and legs that once could run

are planted sound

the silky threads that stick and catch have tied you up

and threaded round

your body, where the webs begin, through the nest that

once was flesh

the spiders climb beneath your bones, their needle legs

all black and fresh

you are no longer who you are, the silver maze, the

rictus grin

the spider men have been and gone, and you are now

beneath their skin

there's another thing, to haunt the town, to hide in all

the places black

you hide and make your spider plan, you feel the skin

crawl off your back

do you remember the man called Ant? Or perhaps The girl

called Clare?

What once was them, no longer is, the spiders took them

to their lair

within themselves they changed and formed and shadows dark and

fast, they came

their dreams and memories are gone, their life remains, but

not the same

for all the people once like us, before the itching

took them down

for all the names, and all the lives, and all the people

in the town

for Neil and Mark and Edgar and Sean, Shelley, Terri,

Matt and Jon

are not and never will return, but it doesn't stop

the list goes on

so beware the spider men, and hide from movements

in the dark

keep your eyes peeled for shapes and smiles that lure you in and

make their mark

the spider men are patient still, they take the people

one by one

before long there will be no more, everyone, you and I

will be gone.

Anna K in the U.K

its about time i went and darn wrote something. i've written this, for your reading pleasure.
it doesn't really lead to anywhere, and not much happens in it. i felt like writing something, and perhaps you could finish it off for me.

it's called "Anna K in the U.K"

Anna K took her seat, at one of the empty tables, on the train, in the second carriage.
  She stored her bag on the holding rail, standing on the odd-blue train seat to push it firmly into position, so that it would not fall off. She isn't that tall; she has long thin arms, and bony fingers, and quite long legs, but that is only in comparison with the rest of her, which, in comparison to, perhaps, the towering conductor, or the stooped over old pervert who kept goosing the women as they boarded the train, wasn't very tall. She didn't, at last, stand head-height with the crowds.
  Nevertheless, she had loaded her luggage onto the rail and was now taking a seat on the odd-blue seat, watching the raindrops outside race down the window to the grimy rubber window protector inside.
  On the seat next to her, and not on the rail with her other luggage, was a cat-box, containing a cat. A grey tabby, Called Nero. He was a peaceful cat, for a cat at his young age. He lay quite contempt with the world in his traveling cage, and Anna opened the cage door so that she could absent minded-ly stroke his fur, and let him play with her hand for a bit. she waved her long fingers around, in a slow, relaxed way.
   Her other hand had recently placed Her Iphone on the table and was now leaning against the window, her Auburn hair relaxing against her hand. Through the headphones she listened to a song from a movie soundtrack, though she could no longer remember what the film was. She enjoyed the peaceful, harp-y rhythm, and the foreign lyrics. It made the train feel more like a shelter against the rain than it was, and it didn't really matter what film it was from.

 "...Silly elen legi, lefa ni len getly, mamensintal, antoua ga ten fe li gese lingue..."

The train churned into motion, and Anna watched the trees outside blur into a continuous green and brown. The raindrops, which had been racing, were now edging across the window diagonally; some were quite strong and visible, whereas some were small, diagonal lines, that had barely hit the window at all.

"...Obi new le ande, ni me so ba..."

Anna and Nero were on their way to a Sleepy little village, called Hope. She would spend a few days in her grandparents house, drinking tea, baking cakes, and lounging in the big chair by the window, with Nero, of course, at her side. She was fed up with Lancaster, as lovely as it is, and thought a change of scenery would do the world of good.
  The conductor marked her tickets, and the old man continued goosing when the train pulled into the stop at Leyland.

"...We look somewhere, me li tachi lingue..."

 The green and brown blur outside was dotted with houses, here and there. Nero had gone back to sleep, as he was when she had carried him to the station.
  The song had ended, and the rain had died down to a little drizzle. Anna lent back into the odd-blue chair. It was cosy, though worn, and tired. She smiled to herself, and flicked the song back to the start. The train was chugging along again, though it had gotten more louder, and more occupied, than when she had got on. With one hand she stroked Nero's fur, and the other returning to the window, and the side of her head.

"...Silly elen legi, lefa ni len getly, mamensintal..."

There you go. Would you like to continue it, see if Anna and Nero ever arrive at the sleepy town called Hope?