It all started when I won first prize in a little writing competition in my home town (with Death walks round the world). To test the water I applied in 1985 for a regional Arts Council bursary: if I get it, I'll start working as a writer; if I don't, I'll write - but only when I feel like it. I got it, and have now built up a body of written work amounting to exactly 50 short stories (with 11 at late draft stage) and three short novels (one still in progress). I prefer short stories; until recently they were badly neglected in the UK. Before I became self-employed in 1992 they also suited my extended lunch hours in Nottingham city library. Now they suit my time 'management'. Poetry I mostly keep private, except to illustrate personal areas of this site, I don't know why. I tend to hop around between art, music and writing.
The pictures at the top of the story pages are just for extra interest. The typewriter (above left) is a neat little German portable I once used for poetry. The first thing I ever did on a (green-screen Amstrad) computer was write.
To enlarge the text on any story page use your browser's menu view: text size, or the + shortcut key (- to reduce again).
I've also put a few flash fiction stories on RedBubble (use the arrows to move between them - this links to the last one).
No-one round here says ‘hello’. They say ‘alright’, as if they care how you are or need to check that everything is as it should be, but no-one ever knows because you're just supposed to say ‘alright’ back…
Leaning over the harbour wall I could see my uncle amongst them. Fish with human faces. The first time I saw them I was three years old, and alarmed…
By now, death had walked calmly round the world so many times that the sea no longer took the trouble to get it wet as it crossed the ocean floor…
Out in the desert, they wanted to take off their clothes. She didn't stop at her clothes. She took off her hair…
When he discovered that she was drinking petrol he wasn’t surprised. He had spotted the bottle in her bag. She would take it out, sipping at intervals throughout the day…
The pipes, tubes, meters and walkways gave this machinery the appearance of a pumping station I had once visited—the scale of the equipment evoked the comparison—but I knew at once that what was before me had nothing at all to do with water.
Some stories are gathered from real life. Go through the
for four very short stories with a melancholy edge…
Or see
for five poems on the same theme (opens new window).
I keep thinking about using hypertext as a medium. And I do mean 'thinking about'. For now, to view a future hypertext piece as (warning) one long page of ordinary text (that might have <link> inserted here and there), click on one of these essays - the nearest term I can find to describe them - below:
(ancient page warning: not updated for ages) Writers, and other writing sites I like, with descriptions.