Tag Archives: creative writing

Reblog: Waiting on accidents

I like discovering new styles of fiction writing and there is something quirky and yet accessible about the way Stephen Baird spins a yarn.

Check him out with this post from his blog, Ordinary Handsome…

Ordinary Handsome

Me and Son Gundy are sitting in our lawn chairs, right here at the intersection of Yellow Road and St. Maggie’s. It is cold and it is snowing, and it’s only ten degrees. We lifted these chairs from Goodwill because no one was foolish enough to buy them. The manager – that would be Joe Bodine, him from over on Hiatt Street next to the old Courthouse – he helped us load them in the back seat, folded them proper so they wouldn’t get snarled. They’re decent enough chairs for when you’re sitting in the cold, waiting on accidents.

We pass a Thermos back and forth, and it’s filled with black coffee and Gram’s Special: two parts brandy and one part never-mind. We watch the cars slide through the intersection, brake lights flashing, but no pavement to grab hold because of the ice. The cars sometimes slide sideways, slide up…

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The last of my opening salvo of reblogs this week is from a man with a truly unique style. His blog, The Drivellings of Twattersley Fromage is a glorious mixture of fiction, poetry and the sort of outright nonsense that Edward Lear would be proud of.

Here is a slice of wartime intrigue, from the always artfully articulate Mr Mike Steeden…



 ‘No other capital city in the world can do grey quite like London,’ her passing thought. A thought dismissed almost as soon as it arrived. For as of now, there was the little matter of the naked Ambassador lying as prone as prone could be, upon his back atop a plainly hideously expensive Afghan rug to attend to. Clearly, her stiletto heel dug into his pudgy chest bone was causing the gratifying discomfort intended. Moreover, that he knew exactly what was coming next. Not that he needed a clue, the silencer affixed to her pistol and aimed at his forehead was, regardless, the giveaway. Was that a tear in his eye? Mattered not. She wondered how he might beg for mercy had it been the case that he had not been adeptly gagged.  How so naked? Her trademark of course, her panache, her cultivated style.

“Gosh it’s so very bitter…

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Posted by on March 13, 2017 in Blogging, Fiction, Guest spots.


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Reblog: Chiromancy

Hello again, it’s time to introduce you to a new blog by two friends of mine. I’m going to give you two posts to start with, one by Todd and this first one by Dustin, I really hope you’ll enjoy their wonderful writing.

Ladies and gentlemen, Dustin Tyler…

Reflections from the End of the World

dustin story.jpg

By Dustin Tyler

I had a dream last night about red balloons rising over a beautiful skyline. I didn’t see them get released—they were just in-mid air and I was a silent observer, slowly following them higher and higher until we were past the tallest buildings and the sounds from the street below went silent. It was the most peaceful dream of my life, the most peaceful moment, and it was fake. Before I woke up, I tried to reach out as far as I could and grab just one balloon, but somehow, someway I knew I couldn’t. That’s how I knew that you would be gone when I woke up.

.You’re always leaving me. It doesn’t matter if it’s a warm summer night filled with lightning bugs and hope, or amid a bitter snowfall that blankets desire. I use only my elbows to get out of bed. The sheets…

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March of the Internet Nobody, day thirteen: Reblog week…

I’ve been trying to vary the content in this, my month of daily posting and I thought a good way to really mix it up would be to feature writing by other bloggers.

Happily, only this morning I found a post from some old friends, who I’ve been looking forward to reading new material from for some time, so their blog gets the first guest spot.

But there will be two more today and another three each day this week, so you might have 15 new blogs to follow by Friday, how cool is that?

Another reason for this literary largesse is that I have been so busy recently that I have barely had time to go through the dozens of e-mails I get each day, most of which bring notifications of blogs I follow. This has left me with a terrible case of blogger’s guilt, since I always feel I should reciprocate when you lovely people visit Diary of an Internet Nobody and leave your fabulous comments (I’m probably just setting myself up to feel guilty about the blogs I fail to mention this week, too, but that can’t be helped) so I hope this helps compensate in some small way for my temporary absence from your various corners of the blogosphere.

So the next post you will see, in just a few minutes, will be from Todd and Dustin and their new blog, Reflections From The End Of The World, I hope you’ll show them (and my other guests this week) some love.

Thank you for your attention.


Posted by on March 13, 2017 in Blogging, Fiction, Guest spots.


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March of the Internet Nobody, day nine: Poetry corner…

My attempt for today to master a new poetic format is half poem, half art project and is in itself a fairly new form. First introduced by Iris Tiedt in 1969, it isn’t something I’d ever heard of until I was seeking inspiration for this week’s self-imposed poetry challenge, but I’m always game for a new adventure in words so I thought I’d give it a go.

Here’s the simplest description of its structure;

DiamanteA 7 line poem that looks like a diamond.

It does not have to rhyme.
It can be used to describe 1 topic or 2 opposite topics.

Line 1: 1 word (subject/noun)

Line 2: 2 adjectives that describe line 1

Line 3: 3 _ing words that relate to line 1

Line 4: 4 nouns (first 2 relate to line 1, last 2 relate to line 7)

Line 5: 3 _ing words that relate to line 7

Line 6: 2 adjectives that describe line 7

Line 7: 1 word (subject/noun)

Constructing such an aesthetic piece of prose on the WordPress editing app, however, proved to be a total pain in the arse, so I made a graphic of it instead.



Tune in tomorrow for the final day in my search for the perfect poetic form.


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March of the Internet Nobody, day four: Sender…

For the fourth time I’m going forth, on my quest to bring my forte to the fore, and I’ve decided to try a short story, so here goes…


The first thing he felt, as he came round from whatever they’d stuck him with on the bridge, was a heavy weight on his legs, pinning him down. He did a slow inventory of body parts and decided that he was more or less in one piece, but couldn’t move his legs or right arm. His outstretched left arm, he could move freely enough, albeit only a short distance before his fingers encountered something that felt like cheap carpet. It was dark, although he could see a flicking orange light, coming from somewhere above or behind him, it was difficult to tell, he was still badly disoriented and was having trouble making sense of where he was.

His right arm was pinned against his side, by whatever obstruction had immobilized his legs, so he explored as far as he could with his left hand; thumping the carpeted surface with his fist produced a hollow, vaguely metallic sound and he found a strap of some sort with a square metal buckle on the end. 

Aha, trapped legs, seatbelt, cheap carpet; I’ve been in a car crash.

He was becoming more aware of his surroundings by the minute, as the fog in his brain cleared and now he realised he could smell petrol. More worryingly, he could smell something burning nearby, the acrid fumes of melting plastic making him cough and bringing tears to his eyes. Again he tried to move his legs, achieving nothing more than straining muscles and making red spots dance in front of his eyes, so he forced himself to calm down. Then he had a horrible thought and twisted awkwardly, reaching his free arm across his body, the restricted movement just allowing him to feel the hard lump of the thumb drive in his jacket pocket. He relaxed, at least they hadn’t found that yet.

Which was when he noticed that sound was coming back and it was then that it occurred to him; his world had been cloaked in silence since he’d awoken here and it was only now that his hearing was returning. He heard the unmistakable crackling of a fire behind him and a muffled voice was now audible from somewhere overhead.

“Hello, is anyone in there, are you ok? Hello, hello, can you hear me?”


He pounded once more on what he guessed must be the floor of the overturned vehicle, desperate to attract the attention of whoever was outside.

“I’m in here!”

He paused to listen for a second or two and hearing nothing, was about to begin yelling again when the voice of a child was suddenly, shockingly close to his right ear. 
“It’s ok, I can see you now.”

He turned his head to the side, noticing for the first time a small triangular hole where the door frame was crushed, through which, by the wavering orange light of the flames he saw the wide-eyed face of a little girl. She gazed at him with her head on one side, frowning with an intensity he found slightly unnerving, so he smiled reassuringly and tried again.

“Hello, are your mummy and daddy here?”

The little girl, no older than ten years old, remained silent, looking him straight in the eye.

“You shouldn’t be near the fire, it’s dangerous, can you call your parents for me?”

“Are you going to die? You are, aren’t you?” 

He was shocked at the causal way she asked the question, her voice was cold, detached. Then he realised she was probably in shock; maybe the vehicle he had been travelling in had collided with her parents’ car and they were laying injured somewhere like him.

“I need you to find another grown-up, I need help getting free from the car.”

“There’s only me.”

He looked at her face, she didn’t seem injured at all, but there was the emotionless voice and quizzical stare.

“Do you have a phone?”

“No, there’s only me, there isn’t anyone else.”

She looked up, her face disappearing from his line of sight for a few seconds, then she turned back to him and inspected the gap in the door. She grabbed the edge of the window frame and gave it an experimental tug. The door moved a couple of inches with a groan of twisted metal but then stuck fast against the tarmac and refused to budge when she heaved on it the second time.

Suddenly there was a roaring WHUMP! noise from the rear of the vehicle and the orange glow instantly rose to a bright glare, illuminating the girl’s face as she stared into his eyes.

“I can’t save you, I’m sorry.”

He wrenched at his trapped legs in frustration, desperately twisting this way and that in a vain attempt to escape a fiery death, then the sound of the flames rose to a roar and he stopped struggling and made his final decision. Looking at the strangely calm little girl’s face, he reached into his jacket and removed the thumb drive and held it out to her.

“You must go now, the car is going to blow up, you must run away, you understand? Take this, take it, that’s right. Can you remember a name for me, just one name?”

“Yes, I have a very good memory.”

The girl’s face breaks into a broad smile, one of her top teeth is missing, he notices, as the flames bathe her in their unforgiving light, making her grin lopsided.

“Take this, it’s for a man called Fallon, Mike Fallon, he works for the government, can you remember that?”

A loud hissing noise starts to rise in volume behind him and he knows the tank is about to go, but now he feels unnaturally calm, resigned to his fate.

“You must go, now. Remember; Mike Fallon, ask a grown-up, maybe they can get policeman to help find him. Now, RUN!

He lies back and closes his eyes, he’d done all he could do, he’d made peace with it and now he waited for the end without fear.

Something is…what the..?

He opened his eyes and gasped in shock.

He was lying on a hard metal table, topped with cheap carpet, the sort you might find in a car, perhaps. A wide metal plate was clamped across his legs and a strap held one arm tightly against his side. A chair was placed next to the bed, but other than that, the room was empty.

He heard a noise behind him and twisted his neck round, straining painfully to see who was there.

“Who’s there, where am I?”

 “It’s only me, don’t you worry.”

He craned his neck still further and saw the little girl with the gap-toothed smile, opening a door in the room’s blank white wall. She held up the thumb drive and grinned again, but this time it didn’t look so sweet.

“Mike Fallon, you said? Thank you so much, I’m sure everyone will be very pleased, they were jolly keen to know who had been naughty.”

With that she stepped out of the room and closed the door.


In a darkened observation room next door, two men watched the bewildered agent in satisfaction as he struggled against his restraints. Then, as two large men dressed in black fatigues entered the room and approached the table, he started to shout and swear furiously and one of the watchers leant over and turned off the monitor. 

“Very impressive, how did she manage it?”

“The girl’s a Sender, she can put pretty much anything in your head and make you believe it, we have had some exceptional results from her.”

“And him, what will he remember of all this?”

“Oh, you shouldn’t concern yourself with such things, sir Malcolm. Now, shall we have a spot of lunch?”



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Quality, not quantity…

Quality, not quantity…

In case you’d forgotten, I’ve written a novel.
It’s a really good one, too; at least so I’m told by those who have actually read it (although my mum did ring me the other day to complain about the swearing) and I am still very chuffed at seeing my work in print…

…But, (you could see that coming, couldn’t you?) it is very frustrating, waiting for sales to take off, especially when I know it deserves a bigger audience. So I’ve been plugging away at it on social media, doing as many interviews as I can and trying to find more ways to promote The Wrong Stuff for free.
I’ve had plenty of positive comments from friends and family, which is very gratifying and I have yet to receive any bad feedback on Amazon, so I’m confident that the quality of the writing is up to scratch, it’s just the numbers that are letting me down.

Here are the two latest reviews…

…both of which I’m very pleased with so if that was you, thank you, I’m glad you enjoyed it, I will get to work on the sequel soon, honest.

What I’m trying to say is, forgive me if I continue to bang on about my accidental novel with monotonous regularity, but you have the power to make it stop:





The Wrong Stuff, a totally improvised novel, uniquely created from writing prompts with no edits.

“Hannah Meredith has always had a good eye and she’s a veteran bargain hunter, but she isn’t prepared, when she buys the box marked “Stuff” at a mysterious auction, for her world to suddenly unravel into a series of increasingly bizarre and terrifying events.
Soon on the run from a sinister cabal of vengeful corporate villains and their homicidal henchmen, Hannah must foil an evil plan to bring the world to the brink of global economic collapse, all the while keeping one step ahead of her pursuers.
A fast-moving thriller with a sci-fi twist, the plot stretches from chases through grimy backstreets of Victorian London back to the present day, where sudden violence shatters the tranquility of the English countryside.

Following Hannah and her unlikely allies in their frantic attempt to stay alive and save the world from disaster, The Wrong Stuff is exciting and original, with more than a touch of black humour.”

The reviews:

***** – “The Wrong Stuff is a fast paced, rollicking adventure.”

***** – “Easy to read, difficult to put down.”

**** – “Fast moving…cleverly crafted.”

***** – “From start to finish it had me. It had drama and suspense, all tinged with a slice of black humour.”


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