Saturday, 30 October 2010

Coming Novermber 2010

You read it during his Gap Year.

You lost interest when he went to university and called the project “a time filler.”

Now marvel as Jancis finally gets round to finishing (and rewriting) the story of “SAMUEL .T. FITCHER, SUPERNATURAL DEALER WITH". (It's what it says on his door!)



Monday, 12 July 2010

The Curse of Four

So last Wednesday, I was sat at my friend Milly’s while we watched ‘Mr and Mrs Smith’ (It was on and it’s called being social? Human interaction?....I don’t know.) Anyway, I checked my Facebook on my phone to have this from Amy.
i think i need tom to tell me another bedtime story (:
And then she appealed to me in a way you can never refuse:

Kind sir, I would like to request, if you please, the honour of your storytelling skills upon my status, if you would be so kind it would indeed make this fair maiden very happy :)!

So I wrote the following on my Blackberry as Angelina Jolie shot people.
Once there was a wild dog who hated the spider god Annansi.
So he put a curse on the number four.
How and why he did this is frankly up for much debate. But do so he did.
So the dog got four pots and called to Annansi "How many pots do I have?"
The spider sat on one of the pots and thought deeply. "Friend Dog, there are one, two, three and the one I'm sitting on."... See more
The dog snorted in anger "Get off and count again."
So he did. "Now how many are there?"
"One, two, three and the one I was sat on."
Dog was fuming. "How. Many. Pots?" "Three and one other."
"NO!" screamed Dog "There are four."
And with that, he fell down dead. And the strange thing was that no one had told the Spider God of the curse. He was just a little annoying.
So how about that? That do?

Not too bad for what amounts to a long text.
Now WHY I told her this one is a good question.
I fear I don’t want her sleeping. Which means even more stories. Iz so smarts!
Other news, I have sent in the final first draft of my play. I can have my write my other scripts.
Might go for a swim.
Who knows?

Thursday, 1 July 2010

'Claude the Duck' AND 'The Ghost Party'

So it looks like I’m back. Hello all.
I’ve been oh so busy writing my script and being in plays and just generally being busy, I have not had much time to scribble stories.
Until a few nights ago.
My friend Amy was unable to sleep. I felt as we were so close (I punched her in the bum to get her up a ladder to get her on the wings of a Hawker Hurricane Mark I; a special bond few share) that I would tell her a story. And...well, this happened!

Once upon a time there was a duck. And the duck’s name was Claude.
Now Claude the duck had a problem. He was missing his wellington boots. Now you might say ‘Tom, ducks do not need booties. They have naturally wet surviving feet’. But Claude was a duck of style and had a fine pair of big red wellies, perfect for marching through the deepest of puddles. Until he lost them.
He looked high and he looked low. He looked under his bed, he looked in his cupboard, he even looked in the fridge.
‘Oh where these wellies be?’ he cried.
He asked the postman ‘Have you seen my wellies?’ But the postman hadn’t seen them.
He asked Mr Hoots, the owl. But the owl had not seen them.
He asked the tugboat captain. But the tugboat captain had not seen them.
Poor little Claude was heartbroken. He sat down on the bank and he began to cry.
‘Why are you crying?’ asked his mother.
‘I have lost my boots’ said Claude.
‘Oh Claude,’ said his mother. ‘I took them to be polished at the bootmakers.’
There were his boots! He hadn’t lost them!
He was so happy!
And Claude stopped crying and marched around all the finest puddles in his shiny red boots.

You asleep yet? Are you?

(... where did THAT come from!? I seem to think you're five! Oh well, glad he found the boots!)

That put her to sleep. But then my other friend Simon (I have never punched him) wanted one. I, thinking a lad would not be so keen on duckie tales, threw out this.

A couple of years ago I was walking along an old country lane just minding my own business when I saw a woman in a flowing dress crying on the side of the road.
Being the gent I am, I stopped and said ‘Why are you crying, miss?’
She looked up, her eyes full of tears and I could see right to the road behind her.
‘Oh, sir,’ says she ‘I am supposed to... See more go to the Haunted Party with a vampire boy but he has decided to leave me sitting on this stone.’
I scratched my chin. ‘I’m free tonight. Would you like to go with me?’
The ghost smiled. ‘Oh yes!’
So we went to the spooky party. There were monsters of all shapes and sizes and all the lemonade we could want.
The ghost suddenly gasped during the waltz. ‘There is that mean old vampire.’
He was surrounded by his friends and when he saw my friend he put back his head and laughed like this ‘BWAH HA HA!’
I frowned at his rudeness and went over.
‘Sir, you have insulted this fine spectre.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Und vhat do you intend to do, human?’
‘I boxed at Eaton’ says I and poked him in the nose. (Don’t hit people kids. It is bad. I can only do so because he was a vampire.)
‘Now say you’re sorry,’ I said.
‘Soggy!’ he grumbled.
‘Like you mean it,’ I said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the vampire.
‘I forgive you ‘ said the ghost.
‘Vould you like to dance?’ asked the vampire.
She did and first she thanked me. ‘I am sorry that I made you come here tonight.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said ‘It was a lovely time and anyway, it is a terrible thing to go to a party with no-BODY.’

Now off to bed, ya wee scamps.
*sniff* They grow so fast.

O-HO! Awful puns for all.
Okay, so...just thought I’d tell you my stories.
How are you?

Wednesday, 7 October 2009


Been a wee bit lax with the writing.
You can enjoy THIS which is a link to a ‘in-character blog’ for Angel Between the Lines.

Promise I will write something else soon.
NaNoWriMo is coming up anyway so look forward to that!

Thursday, 25 June 2009

Let's To It Pell-Mell

This is an entry in a competition about something falling or been thrown off a roof.
My original idea was two mobsters tussling on the edge of a roof.
The title comes from the ending of the film of "Richard III".
After helping Ben with his presentation and seeing that bit thirty times it kinda of stuck with me as the ultimate “I’m going to fall off the roof” line.


Let's To It Pell-Mell

“Revenge,” I say simply.
My father turns to look at me, beer in hand.
“What did you just say?” he asks taking a sip while admiring the view from my rooftop garden. We can see all the way to the 02 arena from up here.
“I know what happened.” I take a breath and close my eyes. “I know what happened to Mike. What happened to him on that fishing trip. Hell, I know what happened on all those ‘fishing trips’.”
When I open my eyes he’s looking at me with fear and know it’s true. I know what I need do.
“Lucy, I,” he begins.
With a feral yell, I charge him. Momentum carries me on and I have a pleasing pain in my fist as I smack him.
He grabs at me and drags me back with him. I slap at him and he careens over the edge.
My arms windmill in the air as I try to balance.
I have one last delicious moment as I watch my dear old dad break on the pavement below me before I too succumb to the drag of the ground.
I try to remember a proverb I once heard about digging two graves but frankly it doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

How I Met Your Mother

When I have the misfortune/great joy (in that order) of having kids, they will ask me "Papa. How did you meet Mama?" (some reason I have French kids...I don't know. Just go with it.)
Anyway, I shall take them on my knee and say “My children. My precious Babushkas.” (I have poor understanding of Russian) “Let me tell you the story. And, for added fun, I shall do it in six words.”

How I Met Your Mother

She stole my heart and wallet.

Please note the ramble is 13 times longer than the story. Funny that. (It's really not.)
Anyway, Orwell is famous for his six word story “For sale: baby shoes, never worn."
This was mine for a challenge.

Wednesday, 24 June 2009

You Get What You Pay For

The idea for this one came to me around four o’clock on a sleepless night with the immortal words “Well, it’s not murder if they’re already dead”.
You Get What You Pay For
I open the door and the girl enters.
She is pale with long dark red hair. Can’t be a day over nineteen.
I close the door.
“I,” she starts but I wave my hand.
“Take your clothes off,” I command.
She removes her tank top and skirt as I slip off my belt.
“Lie down.”
She makes to but I quickly whip the belt around her slender neck and pull.
She thrashes but I don’t stop until she is still.

When I return from the bathroom, the girl is sitting up, belt still around her neck.
She smiles nervously and I throw the money at her.
She counts quickly then slowly looks up at me.
“Can,” she pauses and looks up at my wrist “Can I?”
Sighing, I pull up my sleeve and fall limply into the chair.
“Knock yourself out,” I mutter.
With a squeal the girl climbs off the bed.
She kisses the underside of my wrist and I feel it going numb.
Then she bites down into my flesh and begins to suckle.

I know I am wrong and twisted.
I know I shouldn’t get my thrills like this.
Might as well do it on someone who’s not going to complain.