Haiku
Sleeping so soundly Softly smiling, holding tight Your arms around me.
Tag: Writing
Twelve
Here, at the end of everything, the sun never sets. The ocean meets the land with perpetual violence. Her constant assault increases her territory, inch by inch, century by century. Etude stood on the very brink of the world, two hundred feet above the raging torrent of Mother Ocean. The ragged edges of the crimson
Sticky Bits
There’s nothing more alarming than walking down the street minding ones own business only to find oneself caught in the middle of a hole-storm. I huddled in the doorway of a dingy looking greengrocer and shivered as millions of tiny holes hurtled earthward, making little popping noises as they winked out of existence on the
The Survivors’ Club
I’ve had a few requests for this in an offline readable format, so here you are. Typeset in LaTeX and provided in lovely printable PDF. This will also display fine in most ebook readers. Download The Survivors’ Club The Survivors’ Club by John Dow is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 UK:
Finding Jesus in my soup
David stared into the bowl of soup where the face of Jesus had materialised and wondered why The Man looked so much like a serial killer. “I mean, if you’re the Son of God you can look like anyone, right?” The face widened its eyes a little, rivulets of Heinz Cream of Tomato streaming to
The Survivors Club
So, this pneumatic blonde practically leaps at me as I walk into the hotel function suite. She’s waving her arms and squealing an introduction in a high-pitched nasal whine. I have to stifle a snigger as she tells me her name is Candy. She’s like a five-foot-nothing self-propelled stereotype, shoehorned into less lycra than the
Triad
Triad i. Chrissy Dances And the waves lap gently at the sand, pushing it up and pulling it back, undecided on whether they should stay or go but nevertheless forced into constant motion by the irresistible pull of the moon. Chrissy sits and waits on the shoreline for the dashing young man who must surely
More on Writing
So, I’m writing again, which is good. I’m in the right kind of mental position to do a half decent job of it, so I’m happy with that. But it really is slow-going. Careless Talk is real-world dark fantasy – which is to say that a fair amount of it requires real-world settings and the
Writing
I haven’t been. I’ve let my novel slip horribly due to all the stupid but necessary wrangles that have been going on in my life. But things are calming down a little now. An excerpt of the first chapter was read out last night, and chapter nine is underway. Just need to keep the pace
Shit
“Gardez l’eau!” the leathery little man bellowed, and promptly ejected the unpleasant contents of a small blue bucket from the first floor window. Standing, as I was, directly underneath, I was shocked, stunned, and not a little bemused to find myself suddenley decorated in what had, until very recently, been the contents of a complete