I'm On Amazon Now

Hello, Blog Readers!

two of my books are on Amazon now - for the Meagre price of a single pound!

they are available for Kindle only. here are the links:

The First Case-book of the Rainy Day Man: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0078H55MG

Moons and Spiders: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Moons-and-Spiders-ebook/dp/B007K0AEEU/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1331835002&sr=1-2

Have fun!

Richard Littlejohn

in an attempt to not do any work, i've decided to write a story about Richard littlejohn (a columist for the daily mail whos not unlike commander whatshisname from V for Vendetta who shouts at the telly). i read his column for the first time today, and this is what i assme he looks like, aswell as has for breakfast. in short, a childish poke at some big ol' twat.

  Richard Littlejohn wakes up every day at 6.30. it's time for his breakfast.

Richard Littlejohn is not, despite his attitude, not 100% british  - his father was, in actual fact, a Romanian Music-box built into the side of a Merry-go-round - which makes him only 1/3 brit, 1/3 romanian and 1/3 amusement park.

Richard Littlejohn doesn't eat breakfast like you or me. he has to wind himself up like an alarm clock. though he doesn't use a normal winding screw - he goes out into the early morning air and finds three stray cats. when he gets home, he crushes the unfortunate moggies between his hands into a messy powder, a mix of cat-dust and blood, and rubs it into his palms fiendishly.

  then the winding begins. this usually takes 2 hours. at six thirty, he looks like you or me (well, not me. or you, for that matter) but he looks at least human-ish.

  during those two hours he undergo's a change from his usual appearance. his top teeth start to grind up and down in their gums, lke pistons on a giant machine, before changing into colourful metal xylophone blocks. his bottom teeth, which have by now grown into small hammers with round rubber ends, start to chime melodically against the top set. his fingers, which are no longer chubby bone but small brass horns of varying lengh, toot out in time with the zylophone.

  in his sockets, his eyes swivel two and fro, swinging side to side like billiard balls. they mist over, and turn into clear glass orbs, each containing a beautifully crafted match-stick roundabout horse, rearing up in terror, a look of shock and fear swept across its gracefull features.

  across his usually sweaty forhead the words HELP US scar into the skin, backwards, in that traditional font that he uses to haunt the nightmares of children aged five and up.

  his torso rounds, the skin stretching across his bones, and his organs shift to the side, so that he is completely hollow. six of his ribs (three on each side) break out of the skin, and, like his bottom teeth, turn into drumsticks, which beat out a constant thrum, thrum, similar to the thrum of a headache after a joyfull night on the town.

  with his transformation into a music box nearly complete, the melodies mould together to create a haunting cover or the Magic roundabout theme played backwards. with this, his legs start to spin violently, until he becomes a large, music blaring draidle, spinning wildly about the room, arms flailing uselessly like streamers off a child's bycicle handles. a shriek of violin bows start to burst form his mouth, dodging the hammers, and rip out a jaunty tune across his dry, blistered lips.

  with this, he spins into the street, uncontrollably tearing through walls, bins and any other obstacle, before vanishing into shadows and crawling away, like a descovered spider hidden behind a door.

and that concluded Richard Littlejohn's breakfast.

i suppose i should get back to the essay now...  

March 11th

  There really wasn't that much I could do when the brown parcel arrived at my doorstep that morning. I remember sitting in my favourite chair, a light green affair, facing the glass door and window that overlooked my balcony on the first floor. The manilla parcel was propped on my lap, similar to how a father would sit a child, before telling them a tall tale before bed.

Since hearing the news it has been most awfully rainy, but today, the morning sun shone pale and alone in the sky, its morning rays rolling over the hills and valleys like pastry. The sunlight did nothing more than make the surroundings shine a muddy, decayed brown.

I usually lean against my balcony and watch the life of the countryside sway by. I can see a good two miles from here, all the hills and fields that surround this place like pigeons over bread. the vast armys of trees stand proud in their ranks, and the greenish, greenish grass of the country farms. Up until today, I was used to seeing them coated in a fine rain; the faintest of drizzles that threw itself down with such grim force and determination that one could have mistook it for splinters of a falling sky.

The two things I remember most, as I heard those immortal words for the very first time, was the constant patter of rain against the glass and the cold brass against my ear. She had relayed the news on the telephone, chocking back tears louder and more ferocious than any storm cloud could ever muster. I do not remember if I cried myself; my most vivid recollection after that was that I had planned where I would put a commemorative plaque. It would be just outside her door. It would be light blue, white lettering.

We kept a close correspondence by telephone or letter, though we only saw each other face to face on the occasional weekend. I'm rather glad she didn't tell me the news face to face. I would have hated to remember her in that way.

I slumped heavily in my chair, and called the maid to bring me a tea. I picked up the parcel and read the label for a second time:

The final letter of Harriet Buxton

the maid had told me that grief works indifferent ways for different people, and that in a day or two this might all swell over me, bringing no end to tears, grief, and hurt. All I did was reread the label for a third, fourth and fifth time.

I stared out of the window, wishing it would start raining again in torrents, just as it had been doing. I was surprised when it did so, the first few droplets shattering against the balcony oor, window, then finally an entire tundra of rain showered over the never ending green hills.

Today was March 11^th, a day that will echo throughout my memory as one of the darkest days I have ever faced. She was thirty-two.  

i always think in the wrong direction

everyone else worries about different things from me.

for example, if you are home alone, or walking down a dark street, what do you worry about? most people i've asked worry about attackers, or burgulars, or real life situations.
 
in this situation i worry about ghosts and monsters. i don't give a moments thaught to chavs or murderers or things like that. because they are easily stopped. you can't stop ghosts. i don't like the thaught of not knowing whats going on. i like to be in the loop with things. i can't stand mirrors, worried that i'll see something in them. faces in places and odd shapes in the dark are the real threats. you can hit a burgular with a pan, but something unknown, and unstoppable, will always win. i don't properly believe in these sorts of things, but still, if something looks a bit like a face, or something jolts, then my mind makes things up to fit it. probably due to a childhood watching doctor who, strange but true, x files, and all other sorts of ghost stories.

went and gone and done another one

this one is called "Razorwire faces". it's the third of my stories about spiders.

in floating mazes of

glistening white,

razorwire faces smile

left to right.

pinprick eyes and

barb wire jaws,

shattered legs

and needle claws.

they scratch along

the hairs so thin,

they pierce through

the human skin.

Within the walls of

human flesh

they slice the veins

the blood runs fresh

razorwire faces

have their fun,

eight long legs

and space to run.

Through the heart

and through the tongue,

through the mind

and fingers long

spider scuttles

rictus grin

shattered teeth

with glass within

razorwire faces

know your here

reading this

you have no fear

but beyond

the windows high

darkest spots

the faces lie

Look! Behind!

What's that you see?

Something white?

Something free?

Needle legs

across your back

pinprick itch

and shivers slack

never fear

the spider's song

they're not about

for very long

but as you sit

and as you sprawl,

through your veins

the spiders crawl

razorwire faces

stare from you.

Look at your grin -

it's needles too.

now i've got no money I can finally get the writing done

i'm skipping the next rainy day man. i've been putting it off for 2 years. and now i'm putting it off for more.

i'm working on a future one, set after the next one. hopefully it should make me buck up and write the important put-off one. sounds a bit confusing but i think i know what's happening.

these ones are going to get a bit more challenging one to write. but i won't be getting any better if i don't push myself.

My mind is doing that thing again

  Doing university work has once again reared its ugly face and is pointing fixatedly in my direction. The worst part is there isn't actually that much to do. That's what makes it so much worse. Talking to everyone else I live with, they have such a mammoth load of work to get done, it makes my work seem incoherently insignificant. which makes me feel bad. Why is my workload, a mere 2,000 words or so, so frustratingly diff-
  -No, not difficult. there. why is my work so there? Why does it sit and look t me with its big, work-y eyes? It doesn't like me and I don't like It. and everyone else has so much to do, It makes my lack of interest in what is only a short essay look so ridiculously insulting to everyone else. They have overflowing bundles of near impossible mind-blowing things to do and I have to talk briefly about the BBC and what I did during filming.

  Work brings out the worst in me. Because it gives me the time and procrastination to think about things. Usually I think about good things, like story ideas or visiting Bold Street Coffee. But during workloads I always think about all the annoying things that bother me. There's a certain amount of self loathing that comes out when you find an annoyance in something. Like if you can't find something you've just put down, you hurl torrents of screaming abuse at yourself for bieng the biggest most useless bastard you know.

  That's what work does. It points out all your character flaws and presents themselves to you in an exaggerated light and then, like a smarmy twat, gives evidence to back it up.

  I'm not saying that I don't like myself, I am very happy with me. I like my Optimism, my love of books and writing, and my introvertedness, to name a few. But everyone has things they don't like. I, for one, am not a fan of my nervous disposition. It can be quite a hinderance, especially socially. Shyness and friendship do not go together. Shyness and love don't see eye to eye. It also brings a slightly paranoid overthinking with it - will spend hours trying to think what others are thinking. Too find out their secrets and hear their silent opinions.

  Thanks a lot, work. Thanks for bringing that up. For pointing out the moments that lack of shyness would have been better. I blame University, and also the Tories, for negative thinking. They both know that i'd be rather watching the Hour, reading and drinking tea, and writing a story about the Thimble Ghost. Yet they set us all this work instead...