Well. it’s been a long and arduous week so far. I’ve ended up on shifts at either the very beginning or the very end of the day at work, so tiredness is ruling. Not to mention, I seem to have become the victim of yet another sore throat. That covers two of the title points and goes some way to explaining why the word count for Baying For Blood hasn’t increased lately. Hopefully, the illness will ease then I can get some scribbling done.
On another note, I did speak about doing a vlog after my friend and fellow writer Andy P Wood had started with his #Walkcast vlogs. Where I live, there aren’t many places to go walking except for the beach, which is usually very busy unless it’s raining or windy so a walking vlog wasn’t really something I could do.
Continue reading “Vlogging It, Relaxation, Illness & More Work”
Is a regular topic of conversation in our abode at the minute, which is quite silly, really, as my other half refuses to play unless it’s a rollover. He’s also worked out how much we’d need to win in order for it to be “life changing” and how much interest we would earn off it.
Anyway, I thought I’d share with you guys exactly what we would do (because we probably wouldn’t be the most conventional lottery winners).
On asking my other half what the first thing he’d buy would be, he replied ‘chicken’. By which he meant southern fried chicken take away (one of our favourites to get). He said he’d get that as a treat for us, whereas I thought I’d take us to a nice, slightly more expensive than usual restaurant where it would be quiet enough for the two of us to hear each other without lots and lots of people being there.
Continue reading “If We Won The Lottery”
Charcoal bags. She flushed her face with ice cold water but they didn’t shift away. Not make up, then; just lack of sleep.
Silver gleamed in sawn-off light. She sluiced the blade in the icy torrent, destroying the evidence beneath the tap. The water ran red before paling as it circled the plug hole. It was important to keep your instruments clean.
Towel on metal rubbed away the damp markers until water stains were non-existent. A slip and her thumb wept crimson, lips surrounding the wound to stem the flow. She put the weapon away. Carefully concealed, it was more useful than any other ally.
Continue reading “Flash Fiction No. 87”
I hate waking after a night out. The light hitting my eyes is filled with self-loathing and defeat, a thousand pains and what-ifs and whys. I hate waking to find my bed empty because you’re not there after dreams where we’re talking. We reminisce.
I hate waking with the wish that I hadn’t left the house, ruined myself with alcohol and guilt. But why do I feel guilty when you’re the one who did it? This guilt that I feel when every guy hits on me or people try to get me to let some nice fella buy me a drink or take me home. This horrible, revolting guilt… like I’m being unfaithful to you. And I never was.
Continue reading “Late Night & Waking”