In The Mood…

I’ve been working up to penning some short stories for the next Underdog Anthology, Dear Reader, due out for Halloween. Writing horror doesn’t come easy for me, so today I dipped into The Articles of Dume (written by my good friend the Doctor), during my lunch break, for instruction and inspiration…

*Fuck! I hope it doesn’t take forever, Clicky, the submission deadline is the end of September…*

Anyhoo… I thought I’d post the last of my three stories, but the first that I wrote, for Volume 1. The other two can be found here and here

*Not yet, Clicky, but I’m trying…*

*******

Succulent Sardines

by Roo B. Doo

During daylight the faded grandeur was all too apparent but in the evening the flickering lamplight transformed the interior of Crossgate House into a Gothic nightmare.

‘Well, this is spooky as hell,’ Helena whispered to herself as she lightly skipped up the stairs toward the darkness of the top floor.

Paul was up there, waiting. All she had to do was find his champagne glass and then they would have a few precious minutes to indulge in the most dangerous aspect of their relationship – risky sex. Helena shivered at the prospect and wondered at the audacity of the man the financial media blithely referred to as ‘Golden Sacks’. Getting your rocks off during a game of Sardines at the company’s weekend retreat, was the epitome of risk-taking.

Helena paused as she reached the landing to duck under the heavy, velvet rope barrier and sign firmly stating, ‘STRICTLY OUT OF BOUNDS’. Big bucks can buy use of historical dumps with disturbing histories, but some areas remained firmly off limits. Especially to drunken financiers with little understanding of the meaning of priceless.

She risked a look over the handrail, Helena but couldn’t detect anybody else on stairs; the sound of muffled laughter in the distance below confirmed that only she and Paul were in his part of the house. The rest of the party were searching for him elsewhere. Only she knew where he’d be hiding in a ‘fuck ugly, black wardrobe’ that he’d discovered whilst snooping about earlier.

Slipping her phone from pocket, Helena shone its bluish white light down either side of a corridor until she spotted a fluted glass on a side table beside a heavy, wooden door. The champagne bubbles inside danced and popped as she approached. Helena downed it in one and gripping the cold brass door handle. Part of her hoped it was locked – they had been told these doors were locked – but it swung open effortlessly under her touch. With a final quick glance back the way she’d come, Helena quietly slipped inside the room beyond.

“Paul?” she hissed as she scoured the room for a glimpse of him. “Paul? Where are you? This must be the most stupidest idea you’ve had yet.”

Helena put down the glass and lifted her phone again to take in the dust sheet covered contents of the room. Along the back wall she spotted a large, black wardrobe. Creeping forward, she could make out grotesque figures carved ornately into the pitch coloured wood. Helena grimaced; the wardrobe was indeed very ugly.

“Paul, let me in,” Helena whispered urgently. She flinched from touching the door knob, a carved fist clutching a human heart. Closer still, the carvings appeared to cavort in the cold blue light streaming from her phone.

“We don’t have long. Fuck! It’s doesn’t take a brain surgeon to know you’ll be hiding exactly where you not allowed to. It won’t take those drongos long to figure it out. Let me in.”

There was a metallic click and the wardrobe door noiselessly and smoothly swung open. Helena sharply stepped inside and her lover closed the door behind her.

“You’re a bloody nightmare, this place is creepy.” Helena lent up and pressed her lips against Paul’s neck as he ran his hands down her back. She felt his fingers dig into her arse cheeks pulling closer toward him. “But, I can feel that you’re already hard. That should save some time.”

Helena slid to her knees and swiftly unbuckled his belt. Within moments she’d freed his throbbing cock from it’s rich trappings and greedily began to suck. After a while Paul sighed.

“You’re a wicked child. So, you liked my game suggestion? No, don’t stop.”

Helena redoubled her efforts. In the oppressive darkness, the sound of her slurping suddenly filled her with disgust. This felt like a risk too far, she decided. She wanted to get it over and she didn’t want her attentions reciprocated.

“You really are very good. He’s hopelessly wrong about the most important things, but he’s quite right about you.”

Helena paused and looked up into the blackness. “Who’s quite right?” Her stomach made a queasy roll. “Paul, I’m not feeling too good. Can we stop?”

“Him. Your banker boss.”

Helena stopped and leant back, putting distance between herself and Paul’s engorged penis. The curve of an expensive leather shoe press into her inner thigh as she sat back. Reaching between her legs, Helena groped the familiar texture of Paul’s exquisitely tailored trousers. Shoe and fabric where linked by a cold, bony ankle encased in a silk sock.

“No, don’t scream. Not yet. And no stopping. Please continue.”

With a cruel yank of her hair, Paul pulled Helena back into a pleasing position. He pumped her head back and forth, pinioning her head in his hands.

“They won’t be able to hear you scream in any event. None of you heard his shrieks earlier,” he grunted and sped up. “Two hundred hungry years of solitude. You know, I was beginning to think nobody was left alive out there.”

Helena gagged at the forced pressure in her mouth. Bewildered tears ran from her bulging eyes. Please let someone come quickly, she thought as she succumbed to the darkness.

“As. You. Wish.”

Paul groaned long and loud as Helena’s body slumped onto him. He cocked his head at the sound of someone smashing the champagne glass in the outer room. Heaving Helena’s unconscious body away from him, Paul licked his lips and grinned.

“Yes, you’re very good and we will do that again. But for now, best to make space for the others. Now, I think it’s my time to gobble.”

*******

Right then. I’d better get on with it and get down to writing…

*/puffs out cheeks and blows… Got a suitable Song to finish with Clicky?*

 

 

Missive From ‘Merica: Wanna Kick Up The Batty Crease, Eh? Eh?

*Eh?*

*Oh! Have B…/rolls eyes… Tortured, Clicky…*

So glad you could join us, Dear Reader, for the second half of Cade’s latest missive from ‘Merica. Earlier today I mentioned that ‘ere in Blighty, today’s date is written 13.7, but for my Okie Devil chum in Texas, it’s 7.13

*Yeah I know he lives in Dallas, Clicky…*

*******

∞…—…

TIC

…—…∞

TOC

∞…—…∞

TOE
^Jefferson Airplane -White Rabbit-^

What’s your hurry? It’s long been “group-think” that if you cannot get what you want, get it via another route. I mean…you want it…right?

If you want it and cannot have it, that must mean that you need it. Which means that all bets are off…game on. Right? Isn’t that how “the game” works? Fairness and sportsmanship go out the window when the money is off the table. That means the only rule is that there are no rules. Why…that must mean that no one is ruling?

RUT ROH!!! We got us a power-vacuum. I wonder if scientific experiments could be a root of this…vacuum? Nah…that shit’s not related in the slightest bit.

      Government = —> HERE

HERE <— = Science

They must be 69'ing each other.
^The Nipple Erectors-All The Time in The World^

I dunno what to tell you. But I do know that I have to figure out as much of this shit as I can. Afterall, my kids are going to potentially ask me about this shit at some point. Ask me why I didn’t do something. Why I didn’t do more. I won’t have an answer for them if those last two questions ever come.

So the best that I can hope for, is that they’ll never be asked. It doesn’t matter whether I had some affect, or had no effect. Those are still both valid and useful in the affect and/or effect department(s), but not all share my opinion on restraint and inaction being just as effective and affective as any verb-based textual representation of action and involvement. I think sometimes we forget that non-action is sometimes the best course. Don’t think so?

OK…let’s take the conundrum of “turning into a skid” when driving an automobile that has lost traction on the contact surfaces between the pavement and tires. It’s completely counter-intuitive. Considering the nature of roadways and/or typical driving conditions, it’s almost foolhardy to even contemplate mentioning this technique, never mind actually teaching it to drivers.

This maneuver is going to take time and effort that many “experts” will say could be better spent teaching other topics…like skid avoidance and/or traction-loss avoidance, or more cognizant awareness of driving in less than ideal weather/driving conditions.

Yeah…nothing creepy about that shit at ALL. Not my car nor my ass sitting in it or anything. To you…I’m just a number on some aggregated stat-sheet. A sheep for slaughter. Better be sure.

^Combichrist – Shut Up And Swallow^

Nothing wrong with morality. I fucking love me some motherfucking morality and shit like that. The problem is…application. Morality has been long since defined. Now all you gotta do…is apply it. Or…not apply it…as it were. Maybe if you aren’t including such a concept in your calculations, maybe some re-evaluation as to your methods with this in mind could help where you fail. Yeah…hands off. Jesus Christ…even the gods appear to be pretty much hands of most of the time.

I don’t actually believe that, but it certainly appears that way much if not most of the time. We just sometimes assume that re-definition of an existing concept somehow nullifies the previous concept completely. Flight of any kind or type doesn’t overcome gravity. It simply operates within the concept of gravity however it does. Whether that be bird, balloon, bug, plane, or rocket. Gravity is about motion. Gravity is ALL about motion. There’s just some contextual differences.

You don’t need wings to stand. Not on this planet anyway. But wings are just one type of wheel. And there are many wheels in wings and the dynamics that allow them to work…but I’m getting off the topic of birth and procreation regulation via smoking/anti-smoking regulation. Maybe that’s a good thing. Not like I intentionally try and confuse myself sometimes or anything.

^Clint Ruin & Lydia Lunch – Meltdown Oratorio^

My head has been kinda void over the past few weeks, and especially the last week. Null…is what comes to mind. Almost like some galactic re-positioning is taking place. Like some something somewhere at some time recently, has set into motion…a large movement and re-positioning. Not really a reset…but more of a recalculation of the existing set.

And I’m not talking about zero here…I mean null as in nothing. The concept of zero is representative of the both ether and the firmament…in motion…both at the same time. But null…is…almost like even zero cannot be calculated. Or at least, in this instance. I tried to write about this the other day, but I lost all of the crap I wrote when my computer crashed. Maybe there was something to that.

Think of it like this...

There are certain segments of The Universe, at all scales, that can be qualified as synchronous in a more easily recognizable form(s) and/or pattern(s). The stars traversing the night-sky…for example.

But this feeling that I’ve had? Imagine if every star in the sky suddenly just started going it’s own way. Yeah, that’s still a quasi-recognizable pattern in that the stars are doing something they normally don’t do. But at some point, the wonder of seeing such an event would prolly turn to terror pretty quickly for some if not most watching it happen.

Not that I feel even the slightest bit of fear, nor am I anticipating a feeling of fear. But maybe there is something to that. Should I be worried if the stars start doing something they don’t normally do? Not like I can do anything about it…so why worry? Why fear?

^The Gentlemen-It’s A Cry’n Shame^

I guess if I need someone else to tell me when I should or should not be afraid, yeah…something is majorly wrong, alright. But I get the feeling that whatever I am being told to be afraid of may not be the only thing that I might want to cast a wary eye at. Which is prolly why I write how I do. Meaning: As me, by me, for anyone but me.

So yeah, stop reading this bullshit and go find shit to be afraid of via someone else.

Or something.
^Cocteau Twins – Pitch The Baby^
Rebellion requires a stimulus, and cannot exist in and of itself.

X: You sure you wanna walk this path?

Cade: No.

X: Good answer.

G: I have a suggestion.

Cade: Oh for fuck’s sake. Who in the fuck is this fuck?

G: I bet you may have some ideas.

Cade: (I’m currently laughing so hard, I cannot think of anything to write, cept this shit right here)

G: Just right…just write.

Cade: Something like that…or something.

G: Exactly.

Cade: As in…

G: If you are writing, you are probably right for writing.

Cade: Oh for fuck’s sake. It’s 04:58 in the morning, and I’ve been up for hours.

G: Maybe it’s time to try for some more sleep.

Cade: I’m sweating like a pig. It’s hot as fuck in here for some reason.

Z: Turn the computer off dummy.

Cade: Good call.

0: …

^TRIUMPH – Lay It On The Line (OFFICIAL VIDEO)^

So much for me turning off my computer, eh?

‘False economy’ warning as councils plan £85m worth of cuts to public health spending

How much money has to be involved, in order for a financial reallocation and/or adjustment, to be considered a “slash”? Or is this more a topical thing. Topical, as in, “it depends on the column in the spreadsheet being decimated you backwards yank swine!!! There are real people going to be affected by these changes!!!”

Starting with you…right? You always have the first grab at the parachute rack…eh? I mean…being a reporter…you are gonna know if the plane is going down before anyone else, right? You gotta survive to tell the tale…right? No care or concern for yourself.

Gotta get on the ground quick, dial the stockbroker, and have them sell those shares you own in the airline you were just flying. They might drop as a result of this crash. It could be fatal. Maybe you should have stayed on the plane afterall. This story better be good. Your career might depend on it.

^ZZ Top – I’m Bad, I’m Nationwide^

I don’t understand the logic in draining the ocean just because you personally are drowning. I think you are important. But I think the ocean is important too. Maybe regret is more at work sometimes than we give credit. Especially in cases of reprisal, reprimand and revenge.

This misconception and/or misunderstanding of equality. The equation is always balanced…even in process. You just may be lagging a bit in figuring out the bits on each side of the equal sign. If you are only focused on one side or the other, what else but anger would rear it’s head when someone intervenes and points this out to you. Welcome to the road to regret. I wonder where it leads? I wonder what your say is in these matters?

So much for the lure of the rabbit hole, eh?
^Laibach – See That My Grave Is Kept Clean (Official video)^

I floated an idea for a story to someone last night. I’ve had this story idea in my head for some time, and figured…what the hell…maybe if I mention a blurb about it to someone else, I can think and develop this idea a little more productively.

The idea was/is…someone, somehow, living to the age of 133 years old. Someone who saw The Year 2000 come in, also gets to see the year 2100 come in. But it doesn’t stop there. Somehow or another, this fuck survives to the age of 1,033 years old.

So yeah, not only did they get to see 2000CE and 2100CE, they make it all they way to 3000CE. A living record, of what it was like, to encounter those, and be able to share those experiences, face to face with others. A living book or living record of sorts.

Why?

I dunno. Just have some ideas about data retention and data preservation as it relates to both machines and life.

Maybe “1033” would be a good title.

^Just Between You And Me – April Wine^

So…you’ve worked in order to get paid.

You’ve worked in order to get paid, by someone else.

How are you gonna repay yourself?

I’m just wondering how the ride was prior to payday.

Does that affect the ride post-payday?

Always nice to have options.

Just sayin'.
^ZZ Top – TV Dinners (OFFICIAL MUSIC VIDEO)^
Happy hump-day.
^The Rings – I Wanna Be Free (1977)^

I like stockings.

The girl wearing them is important too.

Order those in any way you choose.

But we can prolly eventually do without the stockings.

I’m going back to bed.

^ZZ Top ‘A Fool For Your Stockings’^

Maybe a random song for the fuck of it.

^Indigenous – “Waiting”^
cYacFa
^Warren Zevon – Lawyers, Guns and Money^

*******

*Yes, I know I still have ironing to do, Clicky!*

Dear Reader… Have a Song 😉

A Sirius Discussion About Books and Such

The Underdog and Under-Underdogs have only gone and done it again, Dear Reader…

Underdog Anthology 2

Yep, this time I have two stories included: ‘Morning Run’ (a real short short)…

hot cross buns

*Hot cross buns, Clicky? …/ponders… Hmm, kinda but no, knot really…*

…and ‘The Inchoate Egg’, which is a follow up to ‘Secret Santa‘ and Harry’s horrible Christmas…

*That’s right, Clicky… ;)*

… Anyhoo, I thought I’d post one of my stories from Anthology Vol. I, for you today, Dear Reader, so here is ‘Mind The Gap’…

*******

Amanda woke with a start. She hadn’t meant to sleep on the journey but the warmth of the carriage and soft whine of electrical tracks, coupled with the denseness of the report she’d been reading had lulled her into unwanted sleep.

“That was my foot.” A sharply dressed woman scowled down at her as the wall of bodies pressed together in front, swaying with the motion of the tube train.

Embarrassed, Amanda reached down to retrieve the report that had slipped from her lap. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled to the reddening dent on the bridge of the woman’s high heeled foot. With a look of disdain, the woman turned her back on Amanda.

The carriage no longer felt pleasantly warm as it had when she took a seat earlier at the start of her journey. It had become uncomfortably hot. Her mouth felt dry and the cloying smell of a dozen different perfumes, cologne and deodorant filled her nose. Amanda stuffed the report into the bag stashed behind her legs and wondered how far she’d travelled. The black tunnel walls rushing past behind her gave no clue and the bobbing heads above obscured her view of any map or sign showing the next station stop.

The tube started to slow. Keen to get out of the stifling heat, Amanda rose, knees audible popping which embarrassed her further. She pushed forward, through the tightly packed commuters, toward the carriage doors, dragging her heavy bag behind her. She thumped the door release to the sound of the bleeps and spilled out, being careful to mind the cavernous gap between carriage and platform that opened up before her. She was glad for the cool rush of wind, as the tube pulled away. It lifted her hair from her face and soothed her flaming cheeks.

Amanda watched the last carriage of the tube train disappear into the tunnel. She wasn’t exactly sure where she was but it couldn’t be too far out of the way judging by the number of passengers dressed for the City on the train. A walk and a frothy coffee would refresh her before the meeting, she decided, as she looked for a sign showing the way out up to the surface.

The platform was completely deserted. In the distance she glimpsed a black sign and gold letters – ‘WAY OUT’. Amanda heaved the strap of her bag up onto her shoulder again and walked briskly toward it. Above the soft hum of the Underground Network, the sound of her clacking heels echoed along the empty platform.

She sighed when she found the exit barred by a rusting metal gate. Amanda rattled it but it was locked. “Hello! Is anybody there?” Silence greeted her call. She rattled it again harder but the gate didn’t budge. Irritated now, she turned and walked back the way she’d come.

It was strange – no station name was displayed and she noticed that there were no posters on the curved wall opposite to the platform. No bright advertisements for holiday destinations, insurance companies or wonder supplements, just the faded outline of where they’d once clung. Amanda gave a gasp as, above her head, the platform lights suddenly flickered.

“Can I help you miss?”

Amanda screamed in surprise at the soft voice behind her. She turned to see a wizened man with a pinched expression looking intently at her.

“Yes!” she replied too loudly. “The exit is locked and I can’t find another one.”

The man continued to stare at her and Amanda felt herself start to redden under his gaze. She felt the need to explain. “I got off here by accident. I don’t even know where here is. Look, is there another way out of here? I’ve got a very important meeting to get to.”

She looked up and down the bleak platform unwilling to meet his piercing blue eyes. The sudden thought that she was alone on a locked and deserted platform, with a strange man invaded her brain. She felt her stomach tighten with anxiety and the weight of her bag dig once more into her shoulder.

The man’s face broken into a grin of yellowing horsey teeth. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a packet of cigarettes. He slipped one out and placed it between his lips. “Would you like one?”

Amanda looked on aghast. Smoking wasn’t allowed on the Underground. “No, I don’t smoke and you shouldn’t either.”

The man cupped his hand around the end of the his cigarette and lit it. He blew out a cloud of blue smoke that enveloped them both.”Oh yeah, why’s that then?”

“Because it will kill you.” Any fear she had felt was replaced with anger as she waved the noxious fumes away. “Sorry, can you not do that?”

The man responded with a deeper drag and longer plume of exhaled smoke. He started to laugh which turned into a cough. Amanda moved away. A glob of yellow brown phlegm shot out of his mouth and onto the track.

“You’re disgusting. I’m getting out of here.” Amanda turned on her heel and walked purposefully back toward the locked exit leaving the smoking man behind. She could still hear him laughing and coughing as she neared it. Dropping her bag, she grabbed the bars of the gate and shook them vigorously.

“Help! Can somebody let me out of here?!” Amanda glanced back toward the man but he was gone. As she turned her attention back to the gate, he stood on the other side smiling and winking at her, cigarette clamped between his teeth. His smoke stung her eyes and made her nose itch.

“How?” Amanda tightened her grip on metal bars and shook harder. Rust flakes drifted to the ground. “I demand you let me out of here!”

The smoking man took a final drag and flicked the lit end toward her. The butt brushed the sleeve of her coat and fell, still glowing, to the floor. Deftly, he lit another one.

“Argh! How dare you! Stop it!” She extinguished the dog end angrily under her foot. “Let me out, you horrible little man!”

The smoking man took another puff and looked at her coolly. “This station has been closed for many a year now. Haven’t had a train stop in a while. Generally it’s pretty dead around here.” He chuckled. “I know, perhaps you could walk down the track to the next one.”

Amanda stopped. How long had she been on this god forsaken platform? No other train had stopped or passed since she’d got off. The tunnel entrance yawned behind her.

“No. I have a better idea. Why don’t I ring the police and have you arrested for false imprisonment and smoking illegally?” She bent down and scrambled around her bag, pulling out the heavy report to find her phone. She swiped and prodding the display in dismay; there was no signal.

The smoking man was standing next to her on the platform. He bent down and picked up her report. He brushed the cover with his hand and read the title “Decisive Steps to Ensure a Tobacco-Free Future’. What are they, then?” He opened it and squinted at the words. A roll of ash dropped from his cigarette onto the open pages. He closed it with a thud. “Well, it’s certainly thick” he said appreciatively.

“Give that back!” Amanda yelled. She lurched for her report but he sidestepped her advance and she fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Her elbow bloomed with pain. “Oww! You bastard, that hurts!”

Nimbly the old man jumped down onto the track, waving the report above his head. With a final, exaggerated cough, he disappeared into the tunnel. “Come and get it.”

“Stop! Give that back to me right now!” She screamed in pain and frustration. The report contained additional handwritten notes; everything she needed it for her meeting and now it had been taken by a nicotine addict. Amanda got to her feet and cradled her arm. Dirt and blood from her grazed palm smeared the sleeve of her coat and she was covered in the stink of smoke.

A sudden rage of righteousness engulfed her. How fucking dare he? How dare he? The filthy smoker had not only caused her pain and humiliatingly stolen her report, but now she was in no fit state for her meeting. No, she would get it back and then she would kick the shit out of him for good measure. She lowered herself down onto the track. How far ahead can he get with those smoke riddled lungs?

Amanda marched into the tunnel but as the suffocating black closed in, her fury and indignation soon turned to fear. What was she doing following this man? She stopped to think. “Did he say trains don’t come through here or stop here?”

In the darkness she heard a gentle cough. “Stop here.” As once again, Amanda felt a breeze lifting the hair from her face and cooling her flaming cheeks.

*******

Next stop Halloween…

Hell yeah

Have a Song, Dear Reader ❤

 

Cork on Stone: The Cultish Interview

Dear Reader, a few days before Christmas, author Hugo Stone was interviewed by Kirsty Cork, feisty anchor of the topical daily TV news programme ‘NoozNight’. Here is a transcript of that interview…

bunny-facepalm

*Oh tush, Clicky… It’s not that bad…*

*******

KIRSTY CORK (KC):

As 2016 nears an end, a year that has been rocked by political upset and an avalanche of celebrity deaths, I am joined now by Hugo Stone, author of the novel ‘Cultish‘ and soon to be published ‘Bunny Snuff‘, to review this past year and discuss the implications for 2017. Hugo, thank you for coming…

hugo-1

producer-1

KC:

Er, quite. Well let’s start with your seminal work ‘Cultish’, your first novel. It’s very robust in its graphic descriptions of sexual depravity, where did you get the idea?

hugo-3

producer-2

KC:

*shifts uncomfortably in seat* It’s both irreverent of organised religion and scathing of the Establishment…

hugo-2

producer-4

KC:

 … Yet big on the idea of family. How do reconcile these very differing ideas? *shifts gaze from author’s hand in trouser pocket*

hugo-5

KC:

Obvious? *shifts gaze back to author’s hand in trouser pocket*

hugo-6

producer-5

KC:

*touches ear* But if we could just turn back to politics. The biggest upsets in 2016 were the Brexit vote for the UK to leave the EU…

hugo-7

KC:

… I’m sorry, did you say ‘the anus’?

hugo-10

KC:

So you foresee a strengthening of ties with the Commonwealth?

hugo-20

producer-7

KC:

*maintains professional decorum* Fundamentally, you feel the failure of the Vote In side was due to a lack of any meaningful engagement from the EU?

hugo-11

producer-10

KC:

… And what about the US erection…

hugo-4

KC:

*blushes*…Election of a billionaire reality TV star to the highest Office. Is that also an embrace of ‘the anus’?

hugo-8

producer-8

KC:

*Shocked expression* Um…

hugo-19

producer-6

KC:

*glares toward control booth* If I may now change the subject to the plethora of celebrity deaths this year. For you, which was the most poignant?

hugo-14

KC:

Living your book? What on earth do you mean?

hugo-9

producer-13

KC:

Thank you, Hugo Stone. *smiles thinly* That’s quite enough for now *violently removes earpiece*

producer-16

hugo-21

producer-15

– TRANSCRIPT ENDS –

*******

bunny-headslap

*Alright! I was just trying something different… /pouts… Okay, okay… see if you can retrieve the situation with a Song…*

*Fuck! He just died as well… Probably to turn in his grave… /sigh…*

*No! Stop. It. Now…*

Letter to Leg-Iron…

mrs-reign-got-a-mauve-rinse

It’s a very exciting time here are the Library, Dear Reader – ‘The Underdog Anthology’ is still on course to be published for Halloween.

legs-tells-roob-shes-got-mail

*Eek! I’ve got three stories in it, Clicky…*

succulent-sardines

*’Succulent Sardines’… that’s the first one I wrote…*

*’Mind the Gap’… Mind palace the gap… /chortle…*

the-phat-lady-swings

*/smirk… ‘Til the phat lady swings? Clicky, you’re such a wag…*

Dear Reader… Have a Song…

😉

 

Bitches Be Crazy

Being a keen universe hopper, it was interesting to read in the news today that Scooby Doo is to get a cinematic reboot… sum thing is usually afoot 😉

 

SCOOB reboot

*/sticks out tongue… Clicky, I’m parched. Go put the kettle on…*

Mother and Daughters
CLICKY: Right now?

*Yes, please. I need to get upstairs to tend to Thoughtful Man and I really wanna get this done.*

 

I'll make the tea

 

Extract from ‘A Family History for Ruth and Julia (Gawd ‘Elp Us!)’, a.k.a. ‘The Ma Papers’ by Judith Eileen Newton (formerly Shewan, née Packer)

The two weeks I spent at a holiday camp with cousin Margaret were great. It was the first time I got drunk. I learned rugby songs and snogged a different bloke every night.

Although I digress, I will tell you this story – while I was at the camp I met a bloke called Tony who lived in Queens Park in London. I continued to go out with him for some time after we got back. He used to stay the night on the sofa in the living room at Elim Estate. We would walk to London Bridge together, so that he could go to work and I could go to school at Euston. It must have looked strange with me in my uniform and this tall, handsome guy kissing me goodbye on the tube.

Then came the day when he frightened me by asking me to marry him. I was still only 15 years old.

His family had moved to Stevenage and he was offered a job on the Blue Streak Rocket on a government facility. This was in the early 60’s when rockets and technology was all the rage, together with the race to enter space. He had been allocated a house to go with the job. He really believed that I would move down there and become a sixteen year old housewife.

Christ! I did not like him that much, although he was very handsome. He looked the spitting image of Anthony Perkins, although I always thought that there was something strange about Anthony Perkins (apart from the fact that he was Norman Bates). I always think that if I had have married him, would I have ever really felt comfortable about taking a shower?

I dumped him of course and was then deluged with phone calls from all his family calling me a bitch and worse. They said he was distraught and they were worried about how he was taking it. Looking back I suppose that it was a bit scary, but in those days I suppose we hadn’t heard about stalking and harassing like you do nowadays.

Maybe I was a bitch? Maybe I am still a bitch and am in denial? No, who am I kidding? I am a bitch, a vital characteristic I have tried to instill in both of my bitches.

It's on bitch

*What? The kettle?*

Roobee decides to give it a whirl
CLICKY: Yes. No, your story’s been accepted for Leg Iron’s book

*Really?! It got in? /claps hands… Hang on, how do you know? You didn’t just use the kettle at Dume Towers, did you?*

smile

*Clicky! Still… I’m gonna be a published author. Oh, mum would be so proud* 😀

cheers

*Ugh! Kitten blood! /grimace… Clicky, have a song*