It's our lot in life

2011-05-17T15:08:00.002+01:00

First piece of art for the big (long delayed) "... What Song?" video project.

From Robert Byrne.

Also this:

Beautiful Stars Better See

2011-05-17T15:06:00.001+01:00

Still Experimenting.

Charlotte in the Woods

2011-05-17T15:02:00.001+01:00

A little nonsense experiment from a whiles back.

The music used is 'Martian Cowboy' from Incompetech

The Umbrella and the Ice-cream Cone

2010-05-03T16:17:00.012+01:00

An attempt at a short children's story. I wrote it for a friend of mine a little while ago.
It's rough and silly.

Originally plotted by Maeveyo (except the badger - she doesn't like that part).

Read it here.

Chair, Do Not Move

2008-12-08T04:20:00.003Z

A haiku based on the story I'm writing:

The guard's knee explodes,
Blood splashes the prison walls,
Webb wipes his glasses.

National Novel Writing Month

2008-11-22T16:32:00.004Z

November is 'National Novel Writing Month' (Which Nation? I know not.)

The idea is to write a novel within November with minimal planning. The project focuses more on word-count and speed than actual story - it's quantity over quality. This might be the wrong approach (I normally try and plan most of my stories beforehand) but it's also very freeing, very exploratory.

I'm way behind schedule but I'm still really enjoying it. I'm going to try and finish as much of it as I can in November and get it completely done before the New Year.

Anyway here's my page: http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/user/459593

And here's an extract:

The sand was a mix of past, present and future swirling around the man as he walked away from the diner. His head turned down, to protect his face from the sand, from the memories. He nursed his shoulder, which he had injured breaking out through the bathroom window, with his free hand and walked with jerked robotic movement in his legs.
In the storm surrounding him, he caught glimpses, fragments of time, dead memories that would not stay forgotten. He saw himself of yesterday, virginal and witless – a youth who had yet to make mistakes but was destined to make nothing else.
Webber, that had been his name or at least part of it; the sole part of it which remained … at times. Memory and imagination had merged to the point that he didn’t know what to be sure of anymore, what was real and what was dream.
As curious as he was, he dared not investigate it further. He had a past of which he was aware, memories he could not shake – an identity which he wanted only to protect or to destroy. Beyond that there was more but he chose not to remember. He could never betray himself, if even he did not know the truth.
And yet, he was Webber.

The wind cut into his face like shark-fins flying through the air. His thin body was battered and torn. Without the overcoat, he was fragile and alone.
He stopped walking and tried to peer past the ether to the world around him. He cupped the oversized spectacles, which now served as protective goggles, and strained his eyes to focus beyond the sand in the air around him.
He could see the diner behind him, but of course that was not an option. In front of him, there was something else. He could make out the vague shapes of mountains or cliffs. It was not ideal, but there could potentially be shelter. He blindly marched onward toward the invisible square shapes.

The past persisted, forcing its way into the ‘now’. Through the large lenses, he could see flames, a village set alight by sandy tendrils of fire … and a face – a face he could not remember and somehow would never forget.