Apologies but due to ill health I have been unable to continue writing until recently. 'Scrap' is now available to download in full from Amazon at just £1.
In a post-apocalyptic city, emotions are frowned upon by dictator striving for perfection. A revolutionary and an artist meet in the turmoil, together paving the way to victory or ruin
You will think you hate me, but in truth you will hate yourself, for i will show you the monster that lies in wait within you, the depraved creature that you truly are.
The first little days of Summer could be the dark expanse of biting Winter, for the harvest is bare. When the physical world is shaken the spirit pours forth. You,
I suddenly realize that I can’t remember the names of maybe half, of maybe a third of the women I’ve been with. This is a problem.
Before we stopped talking, she quoted Hunter S. Thompson in an email. Plenty of people express mild thunderclap when it is revealed that I’ve never read Thomspon. So did she.
The problem being her shoes. I don’t get them. She is wearing a gray t-shirt that probably once belonged to someone else, its screen printed ink faded and flaking and missing, in spots.
Standing. Standing still. The wind in my face. A chill down my spine. Watching. Waiting. Waiting for that moment. The sun going down. A beautiful sky.
On these greener days he concocts stone soup. There is a hustle-bustle, a precise science in his stone gathering. The blunt dig-zing of trowel scoring at crust,