…without a good book to hold (or, failing that, one of mine!). So, in shameless act of self-promotion, (and hoping that at least one person out there has picked up on the festive reference to the ’70’s group Mud) may I be so bold as to draw your attention to a few books that might be perfect for those last minute gifts!
For lovers of Amazon I can only apologise as I have had some issues with the links! I can assure you that all of the books are available through their site.
Firstly a huge thank you to everyone who has purchased either Falling Sleet or The Candle Game. I hope that you are enjoying them.
It gives me great pleasure to announce the publication of my latest collection of writing Another Tease:
‘Another Tease’ is a collection of poetry, short prose fiction and lyrics covering themes as diverse as love & war, faith & loss and hope & depression. The lyrics have no melodies – each one is left open for the reader to create their own interpretation.
As soon as the book is available on other platforms I will post more!
I hope that you enjoy reading!
And now, a couple of ‘teasers’ –
Watching Dreams
Watching dreams
Evaporate like tears
In the warmth of another,
Sun-bleached streaks
On a bed of sand,
Wanting to reach out
Clutch and grab
At Youth’s fresh resolve,
Mold it to age’s wisdom
And stride once more,
Sight-scarred eyes
Life-bleached and hollow
Stare blind at passing time,
Hands that sweep so quickly
Unforgiving, so cold,
And floating on the wind
Dream’s lost fragments fly
To settle on another,
Sun-bleached streaks
On a bed of sand.
The Interview
When they had asked me what he had been like, the man with the knife, all I could say was that I couldn’t really say. He had been, to my mind’s eye, nothing more, or less, than average.
He had stood at average height; not discernibly taller nor shorter than myself. His hair had been worn short, but neither cropped nor shaven, and his eyes, well I could barely remember the colour of my closest friend’s eyes, so that line of questioning drew a blank.
What of the colour of the man’s skin? I could confidently say that he was white, but boasted a tanned face; or had that been a more olive complexion? It was difficult to say with any degree of certainty.
Distinguishing features? He had a knife: a response that solicited a look which could have been annoyance but equally disdain. No, there were none that my sapless mind could recall.
He had been, the man with the knife, nothing more than average. His accessory had been all that made him stand apart. His unremarkableness reminded me only of myself.
Published in Gold Dust magazine, Literally Stories, Near to the Knuckle, McStorytellers, Penny Shorts, Soft Cartel, Whatever Keeps the Lights On, and Shooter magazine.
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