Coffee Shop Girl 2


“I put this… here?”

“Oh god!” He can’t be doing that. “Mr Snaggles, please put that table down.”

“Is ok, I help. You want it in shop?”

“No, no.” He’s not going to change his mind, is he? “Oh, yes thank you in shop would be fine.”

“Is good. I help Kay.”

Yea, you help Kay get fired if the boss sees you lifting that.

“That’s wonderful thank you.”

“You want I lift chairs inside too?”

“No! I mean no that’s fine I can manage. Goodbye Mr Snaggles.”

“I bid you the goodnight.”

“Thank you, I bid you the goodnight too.”

Right six o clock. Do the chairs, mop the floor, sort out the register and then I’m home. What’s that? Oh no, Cynthia has left her handbag; she does tend to focus all of her attention on her food when she sits down. You’d think I worked in a soup kitchen, the speed and enthusiasm with which she eats. I’ll just pop it in the back office and…

“Hello Kay dear.”

I spin around.

“Cynthia, hello. Come for this?”

I pick up the brown leather handbag and pass it to her. She embraces it. I don’t think her children live with her anymore, still all the same, that’s a little bit too much love for a bag.”

“You missed it then?”

“Got all the way to the bus stop I did. Then Bill, that’s the bus driver, lovely man – well he asks me for my pass and I …”


What a strange place for her to stop talking. Should I wait for the old brain cells to reconnect or shall I finish the sentence for her?

Nope still nothing.

“…You looked down and found that you didn’t have your handbag?”


She’s just staring at me, tilting her head to one side and grinning so much you’d think she’d slept with a hanger in her mouth.

“Cynthia, you’re freaking me out a bit luv.”

“Hello Kay.”

That’s not Cynthia’s voice.

“What are you doing inside Cynthia’s body?”

My heart is beating twenty to the dozen. It’s been a good six months since the Grim Reaper tried to take me. Six months since my dead brother rescued me from him, and now…

“Aren’t you scared?”

“Yes, I am.”



“You don’t sound as scared as the first time we met.”

That’s because I’m putting on a brave face and voice. Still, the Grim Reaper should know that, shouldn’t he? He can see inside me, or at least he could.

“Well I am scared. Your reputation is secure.”

Silence again. Don’t know how much of this I can handle. Well say something Captain Creepy!

“So what … what do you want with me?”

“Then I looked down and found, oh deary me, my bag. I’d left it in Kay’s coffee shop. That or the bank, but I hoped not, I mean the bank is closed now and…”

“Cynthia! You’re back!”

I throw my arms around her then let her go and step back.

“Sorry about that Cynthia. Are you ok?”

“Oh yes, I’m fine dear, now that I have my, you know.” She pats her bag then walks out of the shop and into the pouring rain.

The pouring rain.

I don’t have my umbrella. Maybe I die of a cold on the way home, maybe I step into a seemingly innocent puddle and the Loch Ness Monster is patiently waiting inside to announce to the world that he’s real and… hungry.

Maybe I have no idea what’s going on.

The only thing I’m sure of is that this isn’t the last I’ll see of him.

Ok, just hang in there Kay, clean the shop, do the tills, walk home… avoid puddles.

I’ll put the radio on, anything to take my mind off – him.

A bit radio four, some comedy that’s what I need, comedy.

Hello Kay, death here. Our conversation was cut a little short earlier.

“What, you’re on the radio now? I was looking for a comedy show.”

If I’d stayed in Cynthia any longer I would have had to perform my duty and take her to the land of the dearly departed.

“That’s not funny.”

Except I couldn’t if I wanted to.

“Ok, getting funnier.”

You see, I’m dying Kay. I have been here for an eternity and never in that time have I ever failed in my duty, that is until your brother stepped in and pulled you back from my side.  

“What was it you said to me last time? Not my problem!”

Consider it Kay. A world without death. Right now, in Western Australia a site foreman has just been decapitated. He should be dead, but no; his head is confused and dizzy and rolling down a hill – about to scare little five-year-old Suzie by joining her in the family paddling pool. Not quite the beach ball she’d asked for.

“Gross, and still not my problem!”

And his body is running around, wondering who turned the lights out.

“Yea not to mention his builder buddies who probably think they’ve woken up in sleepy hollow. Still not my problem Mr Reaper. Look, I don’t get you. Six months ago, you want me dead and now you’re dying and you come back and want what?”

Your life.

“What? No!”

Please Kay. If you don’t then…

I can’t believe it, the Grim sodding Reaper is asking me, asking me to willingly jump into his little boat and ride to the river sticks. Wait a minute, if he’s asking that means he can’t force me.

“If I don’t’ then there’s not a damn thing you can do about it is there?”


“Then go screw yourself. What exactly is my motivation here?”

You’re listening to radio four comedy hour, now for another thrilling instalment of The Archers.


Back Home



“Hi Munchkin. Have you been good for grandma?”

A hug from my little man. He can’t understand how welcome that is right now.

“I made poo.”

I’m so proud.

“That’s lovely.”

If not disturbing.

“Where’s grandma?”

“In the kitchen putting my poo on the fridge.”

God, I hope he’s not being literal.

“Hey Mum.”

The customary embrace and kiss on the cheek.

“Hello love. Seen what your son has been up to? He wanted it put up on the fridge so you could see it when you came in.”

Oh, Winnie the Pooh. That’s a relief.

“That looks lovely, though he has three ears.”

“Don’t get me started. He insists that he needs the third as a spare in case of a honey emergency. Are you ok love?”

Nope, the Grim Reaper is back and he’s after my blood.

“Yea I’m fine mum, just been a long day; ironic how people go to a coffee shop to relax and unwind, yet the people who spend the most time there, i.e. me, are the most stressed. I’ll be fine.”

I hope.

“Of course you will. Well, I’ll have to get going or your father will be getting the party poppers out, thinking I’ve been abducted by some man in a big black cloak and carrying a scythe.”

I glare at my mum.

“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that!”

I practically run toward her and hold her in a tight embrace. I’m nearly crying. Pull yourself together Kay.

“Hey, I’m not going anywhere.”

She stops to think.

“Well I am, I’m going to your fathers but I’m not ready to push up the daisies just yet. Besides I’d miss this young man too much.”

She picks up Logan and he starts trying to draw glasses on her face with a crayon.

“Sorry about before.”

I fumble for an explanation.

“Just been a long day.”

Good explanation, non-committal, doesn’t need much in the way of clarity.

I watch from my upper flat window as she walks out the front door and toward the bus stop. Night is creeping in fast. A single street lamp flickers on giving just enough light for her to find her way home in the pouring rain. I worry, her traveling back on nights like…

Who’s that? I didn’t notice him before.

The man standing under the lamp.

He looks like an elderly auditionee for the phantom of the opera. He’s tightly clutching onto a long cane. I can imagine, if it were removed that he would tumble over and drift away on the tide of rainwater that leads down the street and into the gutter.

My heart rate increases as I try to look at his face, which is shadowed under the cover of darkness. I now know exactly who it is, and want to go out and remove the bloody stick! Instead I close the curtains and go into the sitting room to be with my son.

“Hello baby, did you have a good time with Grandma?”


Asleep on the couch, perfect; If that’s not quality I time, then I don’t know what is. Well, I don’t have the energy to make any food.

T.V. then fall asleep next to him I think.

Brad and Angelina in a car crash and being rushed to hospital. The dude on the telly doesn’t sound too hopeful that they are going to pull through. I thought they split anyway. Still a shame I loved those two.

One news story is interrupted and replaced by more breaking news. The image on the screen is a little blurred and the reporters voice is fading into non-existence. I’m too tired. Just close my eyes for thirty minutes then put Logan to bed.


Good Morning


I wake to the sound of a ringing telephone. My answer machine flashes that I have 27 messages waiting. I am a popular girl.


Dad, Calm down. What’s wrong?”

He’s frantic.

“Mum? No, she left when I got home. Didn’t even stay long enough for a cuppa. Well, have you tried her mobile?”

Mum didn’t come home last night and with all the riots and everything, dad is worried that… Wait a minute. Riots in South Shields? Over what, the price of fish?

“Don’t worry dad I’m sure she’s fine. I’ll go look for her.”

I pull the curtains open and daylight floods the flat. The street is empty, though Mr Reaper is still across the road and staring directly at me, looking worse for wear. I don’t have time to concern myself with that right now. Logan is asleep in my room. He must have woke in the middle of the night and… Ok, get Logan dressed and get out. I press the button on the answer machine.

Hi Love, Dad here. Tell your mum to stop with the digestives and come back home will you?


Dad again. As much as I love the single life, please tell your mum to come back home.


Kay, It’s your Dad. This is getting beyond a joke. No one is answering their phone and I’m getting worried now. Call me!


Hello love, it’s your mum. I’m really sorry…

She’s crying. Mum? What’s going on?

… It was when I got off the bus, some boys with knives and..

They attacked me;

                tried to steal my purse and when I said no they –

Then I woke up. I must have blacked out.

I don’t remember.

I’m by the Mardsen Inn. I’m injured, I think.

I’m so sorry love.


Shit! Mum I’m coming. I dial for a cab but no one is answering. Are you frikking kidding me here? The Police! I’ll call the Police. I get to the second 9 on the dial screen and there’s a – I won’t even call it a knock, a kind of feeble scraping at the door, like the end scene from Lassie Come Home. I run down and yank it open.

“Oh, my God mum, look at you!”

I take off my cardigan, wrap it around her shoulders then guide her in and upstairs.

“What the hell happened to you?”

My mum just shakes her head and glances over to an empty teapot on the table. Unbelievably British – Brutally mugged, bruised, bloody and she still thinks a cup of tea will make everything alright. I pick up the phone and dial dads number whilst I put the kettle on.

“Dads on his way over mum.”

I hand her the mug of steaming tea and gently cup my hands around hers as she lifts it to her mouth. Her hands are ice cold, her face as white as a sheet, her hair damp, in tatters and smelling of seaweed. There’s a dark bloody patch on her torn blouse and around her lower abdomen.

“What happened here?”

She grimaces as the tea goes down.

“One of the boys, he had a knife and”

“I’m just going to have a look.”

Mum nods and places the mug down on the table.

When I move the bottom part of her top to one side I see three stab wounds, almost side by side. I don’t understand why there’s no blood coming out from her body but there’s plenty over her blouse. I look up at her and try my best not to burst into tears.

“These look bad, I have to call someone mum, an ambulance.”

“I’m sorry love.”

Will you stop saying that?

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for. You have your tea. I won’t be a minute.”

I consider calling dad first but I don’t want him to have an accident driving over, besides he’ll be here when the ambulance arrives.

It takes forever to get an answer on 999 but I eventually do. They’ll be there as soon as they can; they think forty-five minutes. Since when did the emergency services share the same time frame as a pizza delivery shop?   What the hell is going on with the world today?

“Right mum, they won’t be long” I shout through from the kitchen and into the sitting room.

No response.

I pop my head around the corner, just in time to see mums half-filled mug of tea fall from her hands and onto the carpet. In my mind’s eye, it almost happens in slow motion.


I run in. Her eyes are closed and her head is bowed down. Am I too late?

“Mum!” I shout.

Reluctantly, I feel her ice-cold neck for a pulse, for some sign of life.


I break down and burst into floods of tears on her lifeless lap.

“No, you said you wouldn’t go, you said…”

“I’m sorry dear. I must have dropped off.”

I snatch my head up to see her smiling face looking down on me.

Her eyes are open but glazed over.

I’m confused, relieved but scared.

“Told you I’m not quite ready to push up the daisies just yet love.”

She places her cold hand on my head; a failed attempt at a comforting gesture.

“But your pulse, you have no… how are you..?

“She’s dead Kay, except she isn’t. She can’t. Nobody can. Not anymore.”

He’s behind me. I can hear him, feel him and if I turn around I’ll be able to see him.

“Why me?” I yell.

“What the fuck have I done? Nothing that’s what! Can you save her?”

“No. It was my job to take her. You know what I need?”

“I don’t.” I snap sarcastically. “But I’m really interested, why don’t you stay and tell me about it when I’m not here? The ambulance should arrive soon.”

“You think that wise? She’s dead and still breathing, still walking, like countless millions all over the world right now. She’ll be their science project to begin with and eventually taken from you as she becomes societies burden, like so many others.”

“Who are you talking to dear?”

“Nobody mum.



Death Row

Craig Johnson

“Kidnapper, murderer, child killer, The Innocent Reaper. The last one makes me laugh. You’re far from innocent!”

The warden stands a few feet from me in the Death Watch area, clenching his fist. I smile at the satisfaction he would get from beating me to a pulp right here and now.

“The press get it.” I answer. “The idea is that I murder the innocent, well nobody is innocent, are they? In a sense, I am saving them.

He tenses his fist even tighter and his face turns a lovely shade of beetroot red.

“You wanna be careful, you’ll die of a heart attack before you get the chance to see my execution. Third time lucky.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

The phone on the wall rings and he answers it.

“Right. We’re bringing him through now.”

I smile.

“Ready, are we? Handed out the popcorn for the eager spectators? Is my useless pleb of an attorney watching?”

“I notice you declined your last meal and chaplain again.”

“Watching my weight.”

“We had to fight off the press. This was nearly the first truly public execution in over one hundred years. To be honest, I didn’t object too much, but unlike some others I don’t break the law, however much I want to when I look at scum like you. Shall we get going?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Stand up Johnson.”

He walks me to another, smaller room and two guards strap me to a gurney while he watches.

“Wrists and ankles warden?”

“That’s right.”

“Kinky. Brings back some happy memories. Would you like a box of tissues?”

He smiles, thinking that this is some pathetic act of bravado and I’ll break down like Jimmy Cagney in that old movie with the Dead End Kids in it. He can go fuck himself.

“Who’s behind the curtain?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. It’s mostly press. Some of your victim’s parents have showed just to make sure we do the job properly.”

It was a smaller room than the last. The window in front looks almost like a bay window, and with the curtains drawn could almost pass for my own living room first thing in the morning; except for the prison guards, warden, doctor and four other guys with hoods over their heads, lining the wall behind me like sacrificial monks.

“Them the ones that’s gonna be doing it?”

“That’s right. We have a lovely cocktail prepared for you.”

He instructs the doctor to put an IV drip into each arm. I’ve never been a fan of needles but I suppose I won’t have long to ponder it.

I feel something cool enter my body and shudder.

“Doesn’t feel so bad.”

“That’s saline solution.”

I don’t know what that means but I guess it’s like the comedian that comes on before the main show at a concert – not the reason everybody came but a delicate reminder that something bigger and better is on the way, and soon.

The phone on the wall rings and we all look over toward it. The Warden sniggers before picking it up.

“You don’t honestly think you’re going to be pardoned, do you? This is for me.”

“Didn’t think it was. Just if it was the pizza place I wanted to get an order in there too.”

He grunts, shakes his head and picks up the phone.

“Yes, all checked. Open the curtains.”

They are pulled open and I see a load of people sitting staring. Most of them I don’t know. My dick of an attorney is there. How I’d like to get my hands on him, Bart Simpson could have mounted a better defence. Look at their faces, I feel like a star attraction at an aquarium.

The warden does his best to hide his inner smile then reads the charges and the sentence.

“Craig Johnson, do you have a final statement you would like to make at this time?”

“Can I read War and Peace?”


“Just get on with it Warden.”

He gives the command and the sacrificial monks come forward and each inject something into the IV.

“I don’t feel sleepy” I say, slightly panicked. “Aren’t I supposed to feel sleepy?”

No response.

It’s like they have injected fire into my veins. It hurts. I grit my teeth and shake my head. I won’t give those bastards the satisfaction!

The monks step back and I shout at them.

“Is that the best you’ve got!? Come on!”

The Warden looks worried, and a little scared. Good! He tells them to do it again and increase the dosage to 5,000 milligrams. I don’t know how much that is but I’m guessing it’s enough to floor an elephant.

The obedient hooded clergy oblige and the fucking pain! I can’t help but to scream. I expect it to end at some point and for me to fuck off and die but it keeps going, on and on till… it stops.

I’m still alive.

Look at everyone, they don’t know what to do with themselves. This is bloody hilarious!

The Warden orders the curtain closed and I’m wheeled out of the execution room.

I close my eyes and a vision of a girl explodes in my head.

“Who’s Kay?”


The connection


My head is spinning, I almost lean on the Grim Reaper to steady myself, then think better of it. Physical contact may be all he needs to get his power back and suck me into oblivion.

“What was that?” I gasp. “I’ve just seen an execution!”

“Are you sure?”

“Wel,l I thought I saw something. It felt like an execution.”

I’m out of breath.

“Execution, the very nature of execution implies a death does it not?”

“He survived.”

The realisation is hitting me. In a twisted way, this is all my fault.

“Yes, he survived and will soon be set free to continue the fine work he started before he was imprisoned.”

I shake my head.

“Fine work?”

“Well he certainly kept me busy for a while.”

“How long?”

I don’t even want to hear this.

“Seven years and thirty-five documented victims; all young girls, all suffered in petrified agony and confusion before he eventually slit their throats and buried them.”

“Oh, how dreadful.”

I’m crying but trying not to. Why do I feel so fucking guilty about this? I didn’t kill them!

“Documented victims?”


“There were more?”

“Thirty-seven. They missed his first, when he got a real taste for it.”

“How is it that I…”

“You are connected now, and will remain that way till one of you leave this mortal coil”

I look at my mother ‘asleep’ on the chair and contemplate.

Supply Teacher Part II



Dave closed his eyes, took a deep breath and rested his head on the driver’s side window; He welcomed the familiar incandescent waves from the radio, allowing them to wash right through him. It was a song that always meant so much – In times of trouble or deep emotional upset John Lennon would always show up with ‘Beautiful Boy.’

Life is what happens to you, whilst you’re busy making other plans.

His favourite song, normally his favourite lyric, though now it was particularly poignant, considering his recent ‘after life’ experience at Highfield High.

He started to drift into a reluctant slumber and his thoughts wandered back to Carolyn, the former teaching assistant. She had discovered that the assistant head was having an affair with a year 10 student, and was brutally murdered for her concern.

Dave had been just too late to save her and a sharp blow to the back of his head had nearly ensured that he would share her fate too, but somehow, he survived.

He shuffled uneasy in the driver’s seat. Tiny beads of sweat filled his brow and made their way down his face like they had a purpose.

His sleep deepened.

In his mind’s eye, Dave was crouching down over the mangled bruised and battered body. The face had been caved in to such an extent that identification was impossible, but he knew who it was.

One eye was closed, the other locked in a perpetual bloodshot stare of terror. He slowly reached his hand forward and toward her face…

The closed eye suddenly snapped open and the congealed flesh and bone below the space where her nose should have been rapidly formed itself once more into a mouth.

He snatched his hand back.

“Wake up!”

Chapter 1

I Still See Dead People


To be continued….

Futures Past

Part One.

The schoolboy didn’t want to go to school. He stood on the busy train platform; his sullen face seeming to sink over his drooped shoulders, hunched back and clenched fists, which were planted deep in his trouser pockets. He let out a long regretful sigh whilst stealing a cautious look both left and right.

At 10.15am, he was the only boy in school uniform among the many commuters, and to him the badge of St Marys Comprehensive, neatly sewn onto his impeccably pressed blazer was a shining beacon, calling all truancy officers in need of a promotion to attention.

The schoolboy, or ‘Dorky Dick Cock Sucker Weed’, as he was affectionately known in school, was very intelligent, exceptionally so in fact, though his advanced IQ was not sufficient to prevent the beatings James Bower and his gang of Neanderthals had begun to administer over the past few days; they did have a limited collective command of the English language so it is possible they were attempting some form of primitive Morse code on his face. In any event he had decided enough was enough; he was not going back to that.




He wasn’t a truancy officer but he was interested in the schoolboy; so much in fact that he’d followed him from the quiet, suburban house in which he lived with his father, past the post office which Mary Forester the scantily dressed ninety-year-old widow visited every Monday morning – mainly to collect her pension and sweet talk the teller into an early bird lunch and a cheeky game of bingo – and right past a bus stop where around fifteen children waited, talking about whatever it was that popular school kids talked about.

They didn’t even notice the schoolboy as he walked past.

The schoolboy had noticed the elderly gent right away, the second he stepped outside his door in fact. It was hard not to; the man was ancient. He had more lines on his face than a map of the London underground and disturbing, wild, searching eyes. He had bushy thorn-like eyebrows too, with the odd stray hair reaching up to join with the straggled white Einstein mop that was stuck to his head. But more than all this, the man was staring directly at him, practically nose to nose as soon as he stepped out from his house and onto his front path.

After the initial shock, gasp of breath and the customary jump backward, where the schoolboy thumped the back of his head on his front door, he gently but decisively pushed past the old man and continued on and through the gate onto the main street. He didn’t turn back.

The man watched him walk away for a few seconds before deciding to give chase. Though the schoolboy was aware of the man’s pursuing presence, he was only a little concerned; Mr Elderly was as speedy as he appeared strong. Even if the guy did try anything he could surely take him on, might even do him good to beat on someone, considering his treatment at school lately.



On the Train

The train pulled into the station, a few commuters took a step back from the edge before it arrived. One gentleman, overly engrossed in the mornings Gazette, took an involuntary jump backward as his disgruntled wife snatched at his collar. She then proceeded to scold him. The schoolboy couldn’t work out what she was saying exactly, they were too far away but he supposed it was something like:

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing? Stand that close to the platform and you won’t be reading the news you’ll be in it. Put that paper down when I’m talking to you!”

The schoolboy chuckled to himself. His imagined conversation had worked out perfectly; no sooner had he fabricated the wife’s scold than the man folded the paper under his arm and rolled his eyes.

His laugh was rather short lived though. The paper had been shielding the inquisitive face of Mr Elderly, the man he’d encountered earlier, who was now staring directly at him again. The schoolboy had felt a little uneasy before, but now he was really worried. Who was this guy?

The doors opened and the schoolboy rushed on. The train was far too full to accommodate everyone; the stragglers would have to wait another twenty minutes for the next one. He took the only spare seat near the window and his eyes searched the platform, hoping Elderly was one of the unlucky passengers left standing.  For a moment, he thought he saw him from behind, but it turned out to be an old lady reading a poster for the upcoming local elections. The train sped away before he could conduct a more rigorous exploration.

Fifteen minutes passed. He began to relax a little and stop looking up and down the aisle for his elderly stalker. He tilted his head and rested it on the glass of the window watching the blurred images of trees as the train raced past, it was strangely relaxing and almost hypnotic.

A hand gently placed on his shoulder snapped the trance and startled him.

Mr Elderly locked eyes with him and cracked a smile.


“Who are…?”

“Can I sit?”

Before the schoolboy was able to object, the teenager sitting next to him grunted, popped the iPod headphones from his ears and got up to walk to another part of the train to speak with his friends, leaving the seat free for Elderly to sit down.

“I tried to catch you at your house.” Elderly said.

“I know.” The schoolboy replied defensively “When I didn’t stop, you should have taken that as a hint.”

Much to the schoolboy’s disgust, the man’s resulting laugh turned into a coughing fit. He fished out a well-used kerchief from his jacket pocket, placed it over his mouth and spat out phlegm and a few dabs of blood. He examined the contents and sighed before folding the rag neatly and placing it back in his pocket.

The schoolboy turned his head and tried to hide his feelings of revulsion.

“It’s important that I speak with you” Elderly said.

“Why don’t you just…?”

“You should be at school today.” Elderly interrupted “Mr Boyer your science professor will be most disappointed.”

“So you are a truancy officer?”


“Work for the school then?”


“Then what?”

Elderly let out a disparaging sigh.

“I’m you… from the future.”

The schoolboy paused, waiting for the punchline. There was no response, but the businessman sitting opposite looked across at him and shook his head.

This kid’s crazy.

“Don’t look at me like I’m a complete tool Mister.”

He signalled to Elderly, who was fishing around in his pocket. “He said it, not me!”

The businessman just shook his head again and buried himself in the Financial Times.

Snob, thought the schoolboy, then turned his attention back to Elderly who was reading the various advertisements which were plastered about the train. He became fixated on one for John Moreno, the underdog in the impending elections.

The schoolboy wasn’t old enough to vote, but that didn’t mean he was too young to have an opinion. He hated Moreno. He thought of him as an older version of James Bower.  The politician was a filthy, rich fearmonger and not fit to breathe same air as decent people.

Elderly turned to face the schoolboy.

“He’s going to win you know.”


“Then everything changes. That’s why I’m here.”

“Look mister you’re beginning to creep me out a bit so…”

“We should really go somewhere more private.”

“Oh good, that’s less creepy!”

The schoolboy stood up as the train came to a halt, stepped over the old man and pushed through the crowds to get off. He didn’t know what station he was at and didn’t care. He just needed to be out of there.

The haunting image of elderly staring back at him through the window as the train pulled away was hard to shake off. He looked around. The sign on the platform read ‘Control District 452.’

“Well I’ve never been here before.” He said to himself, a little concerned.

“You’ll eventually live here.”

He spun around. Elderly was standing there, wiping his nose with his kerchief and staring at the sign.

“What the hell!?”

Elderly laughed.

“Thought you didn’t like to swear.”

“You’re scaring me now. How did you…? Leave me alone. Please!”

The schoolboy ran from the station. He didn’t look back, sprinting as fast as he could, through never before visited streets and small wooded areas till exhaustion finally took its toll and he had to rest, propping himself up on a garden gate which led to a derelict house.

There was a sudden crack of thunder and rain spat down like tiny bullets.

Perfect. Can anything else go wrong?

He covered his head with his back pack.

“We should really get in out of the rain.”

Elderly inched past him and along the path which led to the front door which was hanging off its hinges and resting on the frame.

The schoolboy considered walking away, rather running, but what would be the point. Elderly was no Usain Bolt and he’d managed to stalk him quite successfully so far.

Reluctantly he followed him into the run-down house, carefully moving the door to one side rather than climb under it.

The front room made the schoolboy’s garden shed interior at home look like the Savoy Hotel. The walls were burned, charred and half moulding, the windows boarded up, and there in the centre of the room was Elderly, sitting on a wooden crate, pouring cold tea into two chipped china cups.

“Please, sit down, we have much to talk about.”

The schoolboy looked around but could see no seat, and if elderly had intended that he sit on the floor then… just no.

“I’ll stand, thanks.”

He was within dashing distance of the door should elderly try anything, so felt he could interrogate his apparent future self relatively safely.

“So what’s your name.”

Elderly took a sip of tea then grimaced as it went down. He was not a well man, that much was clear.

“Oh, the same as yours. Pleased to meet me.”

The schoolboy shook his head.

“I’m not stupid, whoever you are. What you are talking about is time travel, which is impossible by the way. Believe me I know; I’ve studied it for some time.”

“Just because you haven’t invented it yet doesn’t make it impossible.”

The schoolboy laughed.

“Oh I see, I invent it? Well aren’t I clever?”

“Well yes you are, with an IQ of 284, that has to put you on par with James Sidis. Or do you still prefer to call him Great Grandpop?”

“How do you know that? I’ve never told…”

“And you still haven’t.”

William James Sidis was a chid genius, turned mathematician and professor before ending up in a loony bin in back the 1920’s. He was deemed fit for society and released after the doctors in the sanatorium removed part of his frontal lobe and subjected him to countless hours of electric shock treatment.

“If time travel were possible we would have seen it by now.”

“Why? Once someone steps back in time they become part of established events. Generations that follow would never think to question the origins of their ancestors, especially when their minds are unable to process a concept as abstract as time travel, outside the fictional writings of H.G. Wells of course.”

“Yes, but…”

“And then there’s this place. You’ve lived here your entire life. Looks rather different than when I saw you here this morning, don’t you think?”

The schoolboy gasped and stepped fully into the room. How had he not seen it before? Take away the layers of dirt, mould and degradation and this room was, in shape at least, a replica of his own front room at home.

“But how?”

He ran to the front entrance and into the street. This was his street, yet all the houses had suffered the same fate as his. It was as though someone had torched the entire area, then left it to rot.

The rain still fell, tiny pellets landing on him and the street like a collective exclamation mark.

He turned and slowly walked back into the house, the dark and dank interior didn’t feel like the welcome release from the continued downpour that one might expect, perhaps his solemn mood was making up for the literal lack of rain.

Elderly was sitting in the same place. There was no need now to give chase. He knew that the schoolboy would return.


He sighed, threw caution to the wind and sat on the floor, opposite Elderly.

“I can’t explain this… or you. I need proof that you’re me; then I need to know what the hell I’m doing here, and even what ‘here’ is!”

“What would convince you of who am, beyond what you have already experienced?”

“My mother’s maiden name?”


“My favourite food?”

“You don’t have one. You consider food to be a necessary waste of time.”

“My least favourite person?”

“Right now, ironically, me. But in general, James Bower the current school bully and the real reason you decided not to go in today.”

“You could be reading my mind.”

“Good, opening yourself up to possibilities that you would have disregarded as ridiculous before now. You’ll need that.”

The schoolboy had always scientifically denounced mindreading, at least to himself, as pure fantasy and explained the apparent skill of illusionists that claim to have this ability, as a natural affinity toward noticing tiny micro expressions of the face or tiny nuances in vocal pitch and body language.  But that didn’t explain how Elderly was able to come up with specific names.

“Maybe I’m going mad.”

“Maybe you are, if that is the case then no amount of rational explanation would satisfy you, so you may as well listen.”

The schoolboy stayed silent and Elderly continued, first wiping his nose on his Kerchief then placing it back in his pocket.

“I don’t have long.” He raised his hand to stop any questions from the schoolboy.

“This is the only day that your normal behaviour changes, never again will you skip school and never again will I have the opportunity to talk to you like this. Come with me.”

He stood, knocking a teacup from the makeshift table to the ground and inched his way through the open doorway and into the street. The rain had stopped but the day was still darkened with the ever-present threat of night.

The schoolboy followed.

“It’s always like this now.” He took in a great lungful of stale air and coughed his guts out before going on.

“First came the unrest and the civil wars, then other countries stepped in to help restore law and order. This facilitated a much larger war; combined with technologically advanced weaponry the human race was relatively quickly wiped from the planet. Everyone and everything, dead.”

“You’re still here.” Said the schoolboy.

“I escaped; perhaps the only one who could. Time travel is my invention and my secret.” He glanced across at the dumfounded expression on the schoolboy’s face and laughed. “And it still is. I could only travel ahead in time. I came forward one year to find this wasteland.”

“Then you came back in time to me?”

“When I arrived here, to travel forward in time was just possible, but going back to a fixed point in time was still very much theoretical. I have been here six years turning theory into reality. Now I can go back and forth as I please, but as I said, and quite ironically, I don’t have much time. Continued exposure to this atmosphere and the new germs that the aftermath of the wars have spawned are taking their toll. I will more than likely be dead within a month, probably much sooner.”

The schoolboy felt a slight pang of remorse, which if Elderly was his future self could be seen as feeling sorry for himself, the thought occurred to him as he spoke.

“Don’t say that. Surely medical science has…”

Elderly shook his head.

“I have tried everything, except this.”


“I’m still relatively new at this time travel lark. The journey I took to come find you was the first time I’d ventured into the past. I’m hoping if you can change history, prevent the war. You won’t only save the lives of every living creature on this planet, but your own too. You would be forever in your own debt.”

“What can I do? I know nothing about politics.”

“Neither does he.”


“John Moreno, the man running for election in your time.”

“He’s not running for Prime minster, just to be MP for South Shields. To be honest he’s more of a joke, no one actually likes him.”

“He wins that election, then joins and takes over a failing radical party that promise change and jobs, together with a childish vision to make Britain Great once more, with no real plans of how to actually achieve it. Or what ‘Great’ actually means. They – the public – recognise the word and relate it to what great means to them.”

“Surely people would see through that. They won’t just make ‘anyone’ Prime Minister.”

“You give the masses too much credit. They want change. Then they see a guy on TV all the time being very outspoken, saying the things that they want to hear, all to quickly he stops being a man and becomes a brand, like Coca Cola or McDonalds, as such he can create any persona he wants. All too soon the very mention of his name instils in the masses that feeling of change that they have craved for so long. His many indiscretions are ignored; people only ever really see what they want to see.”

“But he’s a bully!”

“Yes. Imagine a bully with the muscle behind him to do whatever he likes. As soon as he rises to power he dissolves the democratic system and parliament, by which time those who could have done something before are too frightened, so they join with him. Better to be the right-hand of the Devil than in his path.”

“So what do you expect me to do?”

“What are you willing to do?”

“I’m just a kid. I can’t just go back and kill him.”

“If only it were that easy. Cut a branch, and another grows in its place. As a martyr his brand would be stronger than ever. You need to change people’s perspective. Show them that they have a voice, teach them how to use it, become an opposing brand for that which is right, force people to speak up and take action themselves instead of sitting meekly and allowing the outspoken few to control them.”

Elderly reached into his pocket.

“Here, take this.”

The schoolboy stepped back, half expecting him to pluck out his graveyard of a kerchief, instead he produced a shiny red metallic bracelet. And placed it into his hand.

This is time travel, put it on, it is configured to our own biometric signature, meaning you and you alone have the power to move freely in the fourth dimension. There are side effects however, continued use reduces your own life span. There is no way around it unfortunately, it’s like rapid dramatic aging every time you use it. So be sparing.”

“How does it work?”

“Just think it. Go into a meditative state and focus on when you want to go. This device can only transport you in time not space, so you will arrive at the exact spot you are standing in in the future or the past.”

“What happens if I transport myself into the middle of a brick wall or an ocean or something?”

“Yes, don’t do that. I’m pretty sure the device will take you to the time closest to the one you selected that is safe for you to land.”

“You’re pretty sure!?”

“Well, as I said it hasn’t been road tested properly yet.”

The schoolboy fiddled with the bracelet, pondering his next move.

“If you really are me, then aren’t you changing your own history by me doing this? How do you know I’ll even complete this time travel bracelet? If I don’t, then none of this will ever have happened.”

The old man sighed.

“I have deliberated over that point for many years, ever since I made up my mind to come find myself in the past.”


The old man shrugged.

“I don’t know, we are the first. My best guess is that I’ve created an alternate time stream from the very moment we made contact and I transported you here. Whatever you do from this point will either eradicate everything I’ve done in my own life from now, or you will be operating from a completely new time line that runs in parallel with my own, which, considering we are having this discussion together right now seems the more likely.”

The schoolboy took a long reflective look around the dirty street and burnt out decaying houses, with no real clue as to how he, the most unpopular kid in school was going to save the world.

His older self smiled sympathetically, as though he knew exactly what was running through the schoolboy’s mind.

“The greatest of journeys start with a single step. Put on the bracelet.”

The schoolboy nodded, fixing the bracelet to his wrist.

“What now?”

“Follow the same breathing pattern you do when you want to focus on something or you want to block out John Bowers beatings. Your mind will enter that blank ‘free’ space. Once you are there focus on a particular time. The bracelet will do the rest.”

The schoolboy didn’t dispute his coping mechanism, instead, closed his eyes and began to concentrate. He was well practiced in this type of meditation.


Back at School


He didn’t expect to be walking the corridors of St Marys when he woke, but there he was, dazed and confused.

Christine Johnson, the school secretary had been standing in the school office waiting for the photocopier to stop being so temperamental, when she saw him stumble past the open doorway, like, as she would have put it – a drunk in search of his missing leprechaun.

She eased gently him onto the comfy swivel chair in the office and poured him a cup of water. His hands were shaking slightly, but he managed to take one or two sips before speaking.

“Wh… wh… where am I?”

“You’re in the school office. We were a little concerned when you didn’t show up for registration this morning.”

She took the plastic cup and placed it on the table, stroking the mop of sweaty hair from his eyes with her free hand.

“What happened to you, young man? Was this James Bower?”

“James Bower?” he muttered.

“It was, wasn’t it?

I thought so. I’ll let the head know.

Why can’t those stupid boys just leave you alone?”

“Prime minster.” The schoolboy suddenly shouted, as his earlier encounter with Elderly flooded his mind. “I need to stop him… I need to…”

The secretary smiled.

“Well let’s see if the head can sort James Bower out before taking the matter to the Prime Minster eh? Do you want to go home?”

The schoolboy shook his head. Slowly but surely, the clouds in his mind cleared and the dizziness began to subside.

“I’m fine.”

He smiled at the secretary.

She was genuinely concerned for him.

For all the human race was destined to destroy itself, it had one saving grace and this was being amply demonstrated before his eyes right now.

He wondered if she would go home this evening and talk to her husband about the events of the day, how she had rescued him, but felt powerless to do anything, trusting those in charge to do the right thing.

“Thank you for your help.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go home? I could sign the forms right now for you, give your dad a call. He could come in and…”

It was all she was able to do, a tiny gesture that meant so much, giving her a feeling like she was able to help.

“No, really I’m fine now.”

She nodded her head slowly and sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“If you’re sure. I’ll let the head know you’re here and okay. Take as much time as you need to get to your next lesson.”

She handed him a time out slip, which she took from a drawer in the desk.

“This will stop any questions as to why you are late for class. Just give it to your teacher and go sit down.”

“Thank you.”

He stuffed the form into his pocket as she walked from the office, knocking on the head teacher’s door which was adjacent to the reception.”

Period three was a physics test. The class had already begun scribbling away on the answer sheet when he walked in the classroom.

Mr Boyer the physics professor didn’t really like the schoolboy, mainly because his knowledge of the subject was primary in comparison to the schoolboy’s understanding and application. He didn’t like to feel inferior, as such he tended to overlook taunts that other kids in the class would deliver on a regular basis, taking perhaps too much comfort from the schoolboy’s alienation and humiliation.

The schoolboy had grown used to being considered an outsider. On some level, he accepted that people would always feel threatened by that which they don’t understand.

When he walked in, Mr Boyer’s eyes beamed.

‘Mr Know it all’ is late. I can shout at him.

Opportunities don’t come around like this every day.

He was cheated however from his shining moment when the schoolboy handed him the time out slip and sat at his regular desk, which was out of the way and facing the window which over looked the football field.

He opened the question sheet and completed the test in 5 minutes, knowing with absolute certainty that he had 100% yet again. To him, these tests were pointless, like examining a degree student on their ABC’s.

He spent the remainder of the lesson thinking about Elderly and what he had to do. The thought occurred to him, at one point that it had all been a dream, a fabrication brought on by the social stress and pressure he’d been undergoing recently. A quick check to see if he was wearing the red bracelet on his wrist put pay to that forlorn hope. There it was, shiny and to his mind, otherworldly.

“You know the rules about wearing jewellery Mr know it all.”

The voice came from Mr. Boyer, who was sitting smugly behind his desk watching the schoolboy fiddle with his bracelet.

“The rule normally applies to girls. What are we to expect tomorrow, a nice pair or dangly earrings?”

The rest of the class laughed, and the schoolboy quickly pushed the bracelet further up his arm and under his blazer sleeve.


Lunch Time


“How, Dorky Dick!”

James Bower had missed the schoolboy during morning break, which meant that in all probability he wanted to catch up with him and discuss philosophy, that or he wanted to beat him up and take his lunch money.

“What do you want James?”

Bower took him by the scruff of the neck and pushed him to the ground.

Guess it was option two after all.

“Got told off for beating you up this morning. Which I didn’t do. So just to make it fair I’m gonna do it now, then we’re all square.”

James Bower grinned at him, proudly displaying his crooked yellow teeth, before using his steel capped workman’s boots to kick him right in the gut, winding him instantly.

“If you’re gonna tell on me, dick, it may as well be something worth talking about.”

A crowd had started to gather around them, and Bower became further encouraged by the laughing jeers from his peers.

“Get him James.”

“Kick him in the head.”

“Ha ha, look he’s crying.”

There were tears coming from the schoolboy’s eyes, but he wasn’t crying, that was more an involuntary bodily response that he wished wouldn’t happen, it only escalated the noise from the crowd.

He was desperately trying to clear his mind and go to his happy place.

He briefly looked up, not everyone was laughing and mocking. Some seemed sympathetic, concerned even, perhaps wanting to say something or step in and stop the bully, but what could they do except shut up and pretend to go along with the crowd?

He closed his eyes, and tried to block out the noise and the physical pain that came along with the second and third kick.

He coughed and spluttered, desperately trying to control his breathing.

Must concentrate


Part of his conversation with Elderly played out in his mind.

“I can’t just go back in time and kill him”

“Show them that they have a voice.”

“Become an opposing brand for that which is right.”

“Force people to speak up and take action themselves instead of sitting meekly and allowing the outspoken few to control them.”

The schoolboy opened his eyes, and to the complete astonishment of everyone, and none less than James Bower, he stumbled to his feet.

The crowd fell deadly silent.

It took a moment for the gnome like expression of shock on James Bowers face to fade.

“So weedy wants to fight, does he?”

His taunt facilitated a few sniggers from the crowd, but nothing compared to the barrage of hate that it had been before.

“I’m not going to fight you James.”

James laughed and tears began to stream down the schoolboy’s face. He knew it wasn’t in his nature to physically try and match James, besides, he could pulverise him; but that didn’t mean it was in his nature to give up, not any more. That was a learned response he was just going to have to un-learn.

He spoke though his tears.

“But neither am I going to run away. Every time you knock me to the ground I will get up, then you can hit me again, and again till you kill me, or break my bones. Then what? You can have my broken body, but not my obedience. No more!”

One girl started to clap and struggled to remember his name, then abruptly stopped when James looked around and snarled at her. He clenched his fist and swung it with all his mite landing the newly defiant schoolboy square on the nose. The comical Chaplin like way he fell backward and to the floor made the crowd explode once again with laughter.

James turned to his admiring public and bowed, joining in with the collective reverie.

The laughter stopped instantly however when the schoolboy, wounded and dazed stumbled to his feet and wiped his bloody, perhaps broken nose with his hand.

“Do it again James. I won’t stop you.”

James spun around.

“Are you fuckin crazy!?”

The schoolboy was bloody, bruised, crying his eyes out and finding it clearly incredibly painful to stand; but there he was, still not backing down.

James hit him again, knocking him to the ground once more. His head crashed on the pavement and he was out for the count.

There was no laughter this time, just silence. No one but James Bower dared move.

“Come on then!” He yelled.

“Mr brave dick weed!

Mr. I can stand up for myself!

Come on get up. I’ll knock you down again!”

The schoolboy couldn’t get up.

Michelle Ryan, the girl who had nearly clapped earlier stepped forward and knelt down, placing the schoolboy’s head on her knee, followed by one or two other students who wanted to make sure he wasn’t dead.

The brave and unconscious schoolboy, Dan Carnelli, who was lying on the floor had somehow won the support and respect of the crowd.

“Can someone go get the school nurse please?” Michelle said.

Two girls, Moly and Jessica, left the crowd and walked toward the school entrance.

The bully, for the first time was lost, in a land he’d never been before.

“What the fuck you all doing?

Get away from him before I…”

“Before you what?” Michelle challenged James.

“Before you hit me? Why not add beating on girls to what you do, you coward!”

“Leave him alone Bower!” The shout came from one of his former supporters in the crowd, and was quickly joined by others.

“Get outta here.”


“You can’t take us all on.”

Michelle mopped Dan’s brow.

I wish you could see this Daniel, she thought.


Good evening, unless you are not reading this in the wee small hours in which it was written, in which case helooo!

I’ve always been fascinated by psychology and what it is that makes a human being do the things that he / she does. Into The Mind of a Murderer is a short story that does just that and I include a mini snippet of the story for you to see here. I hope you enjoy.

As usual all thought and comments welcome x

Into The Mind of a Murderer

He had closed his mind to the infrequent sufferings of his conscience many years ago. Time had withered what little compassion he had left, empathy and love existing only as faded memories, regarded as pointless fiction upon the rare occasions when his thoughts were permitted to wander to such things.

He picked up the scalpel and walked over to the bed. The nurse would be awake soon and these were the moments he savoured more than most. Moonlight shone in though the skylight and reflected his perfectly sharp razor like grin on the surface of the surgical instrument.

The irony that this implement, designed to preserve life, was perhaps the most efficient tool he had ever used to torture and eventually kill was not lost on him, in fact he considered it often during his quieter moments.

Her eyelids flickered, slowly at first, before her own memories of the past few hours, like a burst damn flooded her thoughts and they snapped open.

Unable to move due to the leather restraints that bound her hands and ankles, she looked frantically left and right as though her eyes were trying to make a frenzied escape of their own. Even though he’d seen it before, this amused him somewhat, giving rise to a low guttural chuckle.

She followed the sinister sneer, slowly and reluctantly till eventually her gaze met his. There was no emotion, apart from an ill concealed show of excitement from him as he studied her shocked and fearful expression.

An icy breath of air from the howling winds outside forced its way into the room and brushed over her body, forcing her to shudder. She had been stripped naked, apart from her feeble undergarments, though modesty was now the least of her concerns.

She knew that this monster in human form was the last person her living eyes would ever see.

Hello all…

My book (The Trouble With Time Travel) is still going well and ever closer to the finish line.

Whilst writing, as a wee warm-up exercise i tend to do a little free form to drum up ideas for future projects and I think I’ve hit on something here.

Its not complete (Just an idea at this stage) and i am interested to see if this turns into a novel or a short story.

See what you you think, hope you like it ….

As always all comments and thoughts welcome x


Little Ruthy

“Drink, but slowly. It’ll feel a little strange as it goes down but…”

He stopped to consider his choice of words before continuing.

“That’s what you paid for.”

He finally muttered something under his breath before turning away from his pleading image in the mirror and downed the blue liquid contents in the blue cup.

He finally chanted something under his breath.

It only took a few seconds for the paralysis to kick in; one hand grasping to the sink, the other clawing at his chest, instinctively trying to stop his blood from freezing over.

The time had long since passed for second thoughts.

The last image his eyes were to capture, as his lay on the bathroom floor gasping out his last, was the little girl in the red dress.

Stepping forward out of the shadows, she smiled sweetly before blowing him a kiss and walking out of the room.

Daddy was her first.

Father Mcdaniel mopped his brow with a handkerchief that looked as though it had serviced his nose several times before tending to his sweaty head. He refilled his tumbler and drained the contents in one smooth movement. He may have lost his faith many years ago but as an alcoholic, he had a real future.

The dreams had not stopped, and this one troubled him more than most. He looked at the telephone on his desk waiting patiently for it to ring.


To his ears, the sound was piercing, like several broken finger nails skating circles on a blackboard. He slowly picked the receiver and placed it to his ear, knowing with absolute certainty that Mrs Jennifer Collins would be hanging on the other end still trying to comprehend the apparent suicide of her loving husband.

“Hello Jennifer dear, are you alright? Slow down dear… Have you called for an ambulance?”

Heloooo  and Happy 2015 to you…

I had an idea for a short story today which I thought I’d share with you.

The story isn’t yet complete, there are a few directions it could go  in but i would welcome any comments and suggestions you may have.

Till next time x


“Let me in!!!”

Ten minutes of banging on the door, the fifteen or twenty times he’d yelled at the upstairs bathroom window that was slightly ajar and the countless missed calls to her mobile had prevailed nothing but an ear piercing silence.

Jack Grundy was too tired even to cry. He turned and slid down to the front step, exhausted. Looking across the street he could see that he wasn’t completely invisible, only to those he wanted to reach it seemed, neighbors curtains twitched, the odd face popped out to see what all the commotion was about before retreating into the comfortable camouflage that their darkened rooms provided.

Dorothy Evans, the street busybody made the excuse of coming out to check her car was locked. Maybe she was hoping Jack would spill his guts and tell her everything complete with spell check and grammar correction so she could relate it to the rest of the neighborhood the following day; this hot off the press Jack says “Fuck off Dot; it’s none of your goddam business!”

She simply smiled sympathetically, paused for a second as though she was trying to find the right words then walked back into her home.

It was 2am and the welcome doormat he’d purchased two years ago, the one upon which he now rested had become somewhat of an ironic note to self.

A patrol car slowly approached, lighting up the houses and the previously hidden neighbors gaping faces as it drew near.

John Hobbs the local PC got out spoke into his radio before clipping it to his belt and taking out a flashlight. He shone it on the house first surveying the area, probably checking for signs of physical disturbance before shining it in Jacks face, forcing him to raise his elbow in front of his eyes to stop him from going blind.

“Can I ask what you are doing here sir?”

Jacks mind processed a multitude of possible responses everything from “Yes I appear to have lost my key” to “Sod off PC Plodd it’s none of your goddam business either.”

In the end he felt honesty was the best answer.

“I live here officer. My wife and I had a kinda disagreement and I guess she’s not feeling like the forgiving type tonight.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“Have you been drinking tonight sir?”

Jack looked almost offended “No, why?”

“This house hasn’t been lived in for over two years” he shone the torch on the house “look.”

Jack turned slowly to follow the direction the beam was facing. The door he’d been banging on only moments ago was covered by a huge wooden board, as were most of the windows in the house too. He stepped back not believing the evidence his own eyes presented. “It can’t be… I was just…”

He looked pleadingly at the officer who gently ushered him into the back of his patrol car. Jack offered no resistance.

A pair of sad eyes watched from the upstairs window as the car pulled away.


It’s been a wee while since I posted on here so thought I’d check in and share one or two ideas from a novel I’ve been working on. Be great to hear your thoughts.



“When I was young my parents told me I had the potential for greatness and I believed them.

I thought that was the reason I never quite fitted in, why I was an outcast.

The smile was only skin deep and my inner conflict grew.

My frustration gradually increased with the unchanging ever present ticking of the clock, with the feeling that my potential was never to be realised.

Then one day I did something that would change my life forever. I changed my definition of what greatness was, and with that realisation, I knew that I was the living and continued embodiment of my true potential.

We are, each and every one of us placed upon this earth for a reason.

It’s difficult to truly express the tranquility that comes from being at one with your true self, accepting all that you are. Some are born to be saints, to be good men sacrificing all so that their fellow man can thrive and some… are like me.

Like me, your fate on this world is decided. It’s best that you make peace with that”.

He picked the scalpel from the table and walked toward the school teacher…

ImageI was at a friends last night, and on the way home started thinking of a weird play around we did with the words ‘seven days’. You know from ‘The Ring’ film. An idea then jumped into my head for a short story of which the first part is below.

More to follow I hope you enjoy. As always all comments and suggestions welcome. x


Allow your decayed mind to wander the vast empty vacuum that your past has laid out for its own pleasure.

Clench your fists, if you feel it makes the pain more bearable. Tighten every muscle in your body and feel each one slowly contract as the electricity takes a hold like an all consuming leech using your blood stream to travel the entire length of the body, stopping at every major organ en route to hang an out of order sign.

Fatherly advice was never his strong-point but I got the message, dreaming is bad, for me more than most.

When I close my eyes for anything more than a momentary blink I am afraid to open them again. Nothing is ever the same. I see more in the sleep state, a full high definition movie viewed from all angles where people I know and love are taken from me in the most horrific ways, sometimes in graphic slow motion. I feel their torment, their pain, loss for the life they will never have, only to be shocked awake in a cold sweat and wait for the omnibus edition play out on the news for the whole of the next day.

You might say I’m a medium or a psychic. I simply see things before they happen. its a nice dream, but a load of crap. Thing is when I stay awake I know of all the tragic accidents, murders and cruel senseless deaths that occur round the world, that on that day, the day I stayed awake, none of them will involve my loved ones.

When I wake I’m weak and ready for sleep, the world becomes a blurred version of itself. My body yearns for me to place my head back on the pillow and rest but I cant, not any more.

Until I figure out how to stop this I have to stay awake, I can’t sleep.

Day One …

ImageI sometimes think as a writer I have a dual personality, Its something I learned as an actor, often observing myself as harmony and chaos collide then travel the same road together in perfect unison.

My life’s experiences both imagined and real, laid out on the page to form a new species which plays upon the red carpet that flows from my mind.

The ‘playground’ I create becomes the world in which the characters exist by amplifying true to life situations and taking them to their absolute extreme then blending them with perfect fiction with a definite idea of the emotion I want to create whilst simultaneously developing the character and moving the plot forward.

I’d like to share with you a piece from my Novel in Progress ‘Melek’ in which we take a step back and observe the serial killer as a child. Hope you enjoy, as always all comments welcome x


Daddy broke eye contact with her and looked at me. ‘Its my weekend, he’s my son’. He pleaded with her  ‘You cant just stop me from seeing him when you feel like it’ . ‘Well maybe next time you’ll think of this when you piss me off, now leave!’

I used to cry when this happened, but now, nothing. Mummy has taken my tears.

In the past daddy would walk out, I wouldn’t see him, and mummy, well she’d go to bed or go out into the back garden to have a cigarette, then she’d come back in and tell me what a terrible person he was. ‘I’m ten, not stupid’.

Daddy wasn’t a horrible person he just couldn’t stand up to mummy, and mummy, well she only smiled when daddy was upset.

I made her a hot chocolate when he left. I expected a violent reaction, shouting screaming, but the pills I put in her drink just made her sleep.

She never woke up.