DEAR SIR Dear Sir, Please excuse my sons absence He slept in We slept in The night before he studied into the small hours the mechanics of Skateboarding counting new bruises and fading others how he can ‘ollie’ sets of steps without broken marrow, it releases his anger. How the words of Curt Cobain relates to his 180 degree kick flip and the thrill of a half pipe. That being 16 messes with his head no one understands. And how is it fair, his girlfriend lives ten mile away and he’s no car, why work at the weekend tires him and grunge pulls him through.

The Sperrins Take A dander over Peat clad slopes find the ancient past alive on the fringes of the Sperrins. Pigeon top, a silent view. Absorb, sponge like, the secrets of the Mass rock were hooded priests pray in whispers. Beagmore stone circles retell hardships of bronze age man, Strong, creative, protective of family clan. The Olgham stone of Greencastle, notches ingrained, communicators of the barren landscape. Take A dander over the Sperrins, sense the myths hidden in bedrock, hear the echos of the past re-claimed.

Casenotes (from subject's recreational record) Today I am on a tiger hunt, tight-swollen with revenge. At least, the idea of it. The sketch overdrawn in song, inked in by gang war movies. A claw is lodged deep in me from the last charge and I think I love it, prodding the wound. A barrel of curare drips into my eye. Someone holds a cup above my face, catches drops, shields, only failing when the vessel needs emptying – a split second burn. I punch her but she stays, I cut her, jab, spit, but she remains. Today I bombard a friend. Today

There she goes again, Shuffling on her small grey feet, Shabby clothes adorned with stains, Head bowed against the sleet, Damp, still, from last night’s rain, Her load of crinkled carrier bags Crunching in her arms, Her face smooth-skinned Like a time-worn pebble, Head twitching in permanent alarm, Eyes locked on some distant shore, Frozen in time, eager remembrance Of bygone places And a forfeited chance. Now and then she hears The whispered lines of Some ancient joke and She sheds her cloak of fear, Throws her head back, Grey hair tumbling like a dancer’s

F-18 From a distance, Tam watched in silence. Like him, the monster had remained in the same place all night, dormant; poised. His eyes hurt from too many fags, the odd tear, and staring ahead into the night shadows of his past. Aches clung to him where his body moulded into the chair. It had been a long night. An hour earlier dawn had crept by, nudging the darkness to another place; another time. The quiet of night fled bringing a slow thread of familiar sounds to his ear. He knew it wouldn't be long.

Far to the North of where most consider livable lies the land of Eldermoon, a vast frozen wasteland in which only the insane or the very brave would chose to live. The near lack of human settlement has left the vast forests in the region intact, and well populated with Balverines, the wolf-people of the forests. Though most clans are peaceful toward humans, the Luna and Tropa Balverine clans that populate the Eldermoon woods have a reputation for being incredibly barbaric and bloodthirsty.

The QWE is the most secretive agency in the world. As one of their top agents, even I am not allowed to know my own code name. So efficient are the methods of QWE’s agents that we are able to prevent anything bad from ever happening, except for when we mess up and bad things happen. We protect the world like a stressed out parent who has had a long day and just wants to unwind in front of the television with a cold beer.

I had been fired from the simplest job in the world-shoveling balls out of the pit at Chuck-E-Cheese and cleaning, then putting them back. I was told that I had done an “unsatisfactory job” and that “demanding $80 an hour is unreasonable” and that I was a “boisterous idiot”. Outraged, I only worked there for another week without pay before the police forcibly removed me from the building.