went and wrote another poem, this time it isn't about spiders.

this one's a bit happier. it's called "Words and friends."

perhaps I should start

with Hello

or hi, or hey, or how are you.

I think its what I want

to say

to start off something big and new.

The other word, thats in

my head

is thankyou, what a thing to hear,

Is sticks to every thing

you find

and makes it happy and sincere.

But what are words that cross

my mind

if I don't use them differently?

the words are only

little things

string them together, why don't we?

Conversation, now we're

there

we're at the bit that that's built to last.

We do it right, we make

it work

the fragile words are flying fast.

Perhaps I ask you what

you like

you answer, and I listen in.

its nice that we are

so alike

though at this point, the friendship's thin.

We keep it going,

never stop

until we reach a final bit.

There's nothing more for us

to know

about each other, and that is it.

Now that we're friends it

doesn't mean

that there are no more words to say.

We garble sounds and write

them down

to use them for another day.

Sorry is one of

those things

that is never heard just only once.

Like thankyou, it's said

a million times

it never loses importance.

Perhaps we should make up

more words

because my list is growing thin.

I cannot think of much

to say

without repeating everything.

Now that we're friends, and

close enough

to know each other through and through

the words we use once

and again

will always be around for you.

So there we are, at least

for now

we have a friend, and words and sound.

Its always nice to write

things down

and share them when you are around.

So sorry, is what I might have

to say,

or thankyou, or lets meet again.

We started with hello,

and then

we got to friendship in the end.

dreams, and odd shaped scars

i did something i always wanted to do today:

I wrote a price on the inside of a book cover, in pencil.

while it does not sound like the most ambitious thing to do, its something i've always wanted to do, and im glad i did it.
   it is not my biggest dream in life, but it is still important. i like people who have impossible dreams. people who go for the most out of the way dream imaginable, something which could be done, but the chances are very slim. people who have no dreams worry me.
  I know people who want to be Actors or Actresses, Film producers, Journalists, Chefs - all very worthwhile dreams. but i love the people who want to be really good, highly respected and renowned Actors and Actresses, Film porducers, Journalists, Chefs. people who work with their Heroes, and make their heroes proud.
   i think everyone has some impossible dreams, but sometimes people don't put any effort in. i know people who might want to do anything, but dont make it clear what they want to be. people who have no obvious hobby. they worry me.
  i would love to work in a bookshop, and would love to be an author. thats my dream. my impossible dream is own a bookshop, be a well known author, write a Doctor Who episode, and work with the authors I admire and respect the most.
 whats your dream?

also, i have a scar from a blister on my heel. it'l heal up, but it looks like a big cartoon-y Love heart. but it could also look like a Letter U, or a letter C. or an N, or...

Deary me

  University is around the corner.

Last year at uni, i did everything from the wrong angle, mainly because i didnt know what was going on, and always do things from the wrong angle. the plan for year two is to do everything i did last year again, differently.

not that last year wasn't fun - but it could have been better. i did make some mistakes with things, and approached everything with a nervous unknowing that comes with something new. since everything was new, i imagine everyone else was like that also. perhaps everyone's first year is like that...

year two will hopefully involve more books and more coffees. since i found the best coffee shop, im halfway there. havent found a decent cheap bookshop yet, so i am still reliant with Waterstone's, or the occaisonal decent find in Oxfam.

have a shedload of unread books to take with me. i like having a lot of books around as they make me feel cosier and more confident. i want a room full of books at uni. havent got space for anything important.

lets hope that year two is different from year one. at least i know what i'm doing this time, sort of.

anyway, back to writing something, and the kettles just gone.

Moon

there is a lot of angry people in Britain at the moment, so i thought i'd write a story to cheer everyone up.

 

“I” said the Moon, “am the Moon.”

the hordes stared up at the inky darkness, and the white smudge of light that had promised to stop and say hello had finally done so.

The Moon, what was originally thought of to be a chancing lump of rock that had got caught up in Earth's gravity, had recently been discovered to be sentient, and had decided to “hang around” for a few forevers, to see how things were going on.

The Moon is a bit of an awkward character. He, or she, depending on which you prefer wouldn't usually stay for long, wandering off near the end of the night, like a friend leaving the nightclub because they have run out of money, or don't want to be around everyone. However, he had announced that he was going to stay and have a proper chat, for a bit.

Everyone was laying down outside, wherever they found space to do so, so that they could see the Moons first ever speech. He/she was hovering over Europe, which, he/she had decided, looked like the friendliest of the continents.

In this particular spot, on the green grass of Hyde park, London, the first words of the Moon had just been spoken.

“I” said the Moon, “am the Moon.”

everyone applauded.

“i'm glad that you have came out to say hello” he/she announced. The Moon's voice was loud, but hesitant, as if he/she was not a hundred percent certain on what it was saying. It sounded like the voice everyone had famously heard saying “one small step for man...”. Knowing the name of the astronaut would be nice, but there are more important things going on at the moment.

“I recorded the voice” the Moon continued. “from the people you sent up. Oh, and They left a flag, I don't know if you want it back or anything...”

the Moon didn't perform a speech. He took a few questions.

“how are you alive?” came a small voice, probably from France. The Moon had, politely, agreed to translate and project all questions asked, so that everyone everywhere could enjoy them.

“it's not hard to be alive” the Moon replied. “I don't do that much. Sit about in the sky. Do a few laps of the Earth, you know, excersise.”

the Moon took a few more questions, thanked everyone for turning up, and everyone applauded again, and went home.

The Moon stayed.

The next day, everyone was going about their daily business, most of them excited by the nights events, but unaware that the Moon was still there. At about 3 o'clock in the afternoon, in Poland, where this new event took place, the Moon spoke again.

“having a nice day?” the Moon boomed.

The shock caused many car crashes, trips, and, inexplicably, a fire, in a polish farm on the outskirts of Osweicim, a town near Krakow that was more famously known by its German name.

“Moon?” the people of Poland said, or thought.

“hello!” the Moon was cheery today. He had made some new friends, and he didn't really have any intention of packing off and going to Australia, and Africa, and the other Countries he would visit during our day-time.

“shouldn't you be in the south?”

“I thought i'd stay, get to know everyone better.”

the Moon stayed for a few days, though not realising the trouble he was causing. The tides were in a right mess.

Soon, the people of the Northern Hemisphere were annoyed at the Moon. It wouldn't go away.

“Moon,” someone said, one starry night, somewhere in Russia, “perhaps you should go and make more friends in the south.”

“but what about us?” the Moon replied. The booming voice still caused minor troubles, but it's constant interruption was less of a surprise by now.

“we've enjoyed your company” the person lied, “but we preferred it when you only stayed for shorter periods.”

the Moon was upset. The Moon had never been as upset as it was then. It had tried to make new friends, and they didn't want him around.

The next day, and the next night, and forever so on from then, the Moon was gone. Despite attempts to get the Moon back, it was never seen in the skies again.

I'm lying in Hyde park, where all this started, too long ago to remember now. Staring at the inky blackness, and the dim light of the stars.

new rainy day man story

its ready to read. if anyone wants a copy, let me know, and i'll email it out

thankyou!

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.