Dreamcatcher…

Dreams have been my companions down the years. They have fed my creativity and nourished my will for the future. Some time ago, the dreams stopped coming. At night when I slept, I did just that. There was a void of neither here nor there into which I was plunged each time I rested my... Continue Reading →

The Tatooist of Auschwitz

A Novel I have only just finished reading this and have gained something from its tale. There was a moment towards the end of the story that I started to feel the tears begin to well-up beneath my glasses. The spectacles are not rose-tinted, but are tainted by the passing years. This meant that I... Continue Reading →

Another Memory

Go with what you know. Piss patches and a sense of infirmity.  When I arrived at work today the world was grey, just grey, just grey...But I was up for it. The weather people were predicting another month of winter. Poxatoni Phil would have been a brighter hope. I had a slightly improved mood, but... Continue Reading →

Shooting the Breeze

I'm writing this on the back of a conversation with Angie, a fellow blogger and person who I respect enormously. Angie was questioning my post from yesterday that dealt with aspirations. I can see how anyone may have misunderstood what I was actually meaning. I was questioning the way in which schools begin to sell... Continue Reading →

The Issue of Falling…

When I was at school and struggling with spelling, I could not spell complicated words such as ‘Armaggeddon’. This inability fed my young anxiety and I tried to cover it up so that others would not ridicule me. My RE teacher looked at my attempt and saw the concern upon my face. “Don’t worry, Matthew,... Continue Reading →

Waking Up To Satanic Verses.

It's an odd thing to pop into ones head as the last of sleep drains away, but this morning I woke with a strange idea, religion. As with all strange ideas born from slumber, this one threatened to wash away before my true wakefulness had returned and so I tried to capture some of it... Continue Reading →

Why I Write. George Orwell

It communicates. From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that when I grew up I should be a writer. Between the ages of about seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea, but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and... Continue Reading →

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