The hour of shadows came then, scouring the pavement in a carpet of pale crystal cubes which shone with the fairground photograph as if there were nothing more beautiful on this earth. And it took time in its scissored fingers and stuffed it into a bottle, throwing it far out to sea to be washed up on some distant … Continue reading The hour of shadows
If you were the last person left alive, would you still write? Sure, it's a hypothetical scenario. But words are about communication. A book is written to tell a story. A poem to share an experience. You only have to look at the submission figures churned out by the publishing industry to recognise that this … Continue reading The Last Human
Last Christmas I was given a wall calendar. Due to what I can only surmise is some kind of Pavlovian response, I immediately stuck it up on my kitchen wall. In order to add some excitement, I decided to not peek ahead. And so the year went on. With each new month revealing a different … Continue reading The problem with ticks
When I'm writing a novel, I can happily sit at a keyboard until the postman calls through the letter box to see if I'm still alive, but come the bit where I have to pull a synopsis together, and I'm cleaning out cupboards, decorating the lounge and talking to my neighbour about compost. Seriously, I … Continue reading Synopsis…ssses.
As the last remnants of a colourless sunrise faded from the horizon they saw him, the man from the desert who had come in search of ghosts. They rose up then, and before his shadow had even wrapped itself around the first of the granite stones, they were upon him. Holding out jars sealed with … Continue reading Medicine Man