Tchock
Staying Alive/Health Hazard
Ragnarok / The Unfashionable End of the Galaxy
member since 14.07.2004

I have decided to embark on a strangely satisfying and difficult task: creating a story of 500 words or more for the next year.

Check it out at www.365stories.co.uk






In the event of David Cameron becoming the Prime Minister of Great Britain: would the last person to leave Britain please switch off the lights....

Fuck.
It is an effort to try and remember that Gordon Brown isn't the PM any more.


Today I am now officially no longer a student. I am a real person. I have finished university with my head held partially up high. I didn't go to classes because they bore me. I cannot keep plants alive - although my new project is Jack the Peace Lily. I enjoy music. I enjoy sleeping. I am currently addicted to Jeeves & Wooster. An open book in my room is Digital Signal Processing by an arrangement of people.

I never look the same in any given picture. I change my hair colour with the season - but never too outrageous. Natural. I do photography.

So, well... to continue. It is official now. I have moved into full adulthood. I have paid this month's council tax. Please give a moment's silence for my bank account.

In other riveting news I have decided that in order to happily live out the rest of my mediocre life on this planet I must be a writer.


What do you want to know? Probably not much, but in the off chance?



So, wind casting through her hair like sails, this was it. A blue harbour with rusty ships all sinking slower than her heart. Where had those seagulls soaring so low gone: where were the waves upon that white sandy shore? She couldn't grasp the seams of reality, pinned and sewn against this horrid nightmare. And she looked out, speechless, and tangled in thought. Where would it go: where would she keep it? All that love that had bubbled and brewed for so long? What would she do - and would it ever stop burning in her heart?


I met a man once, who stopped to listen as I said his name upon a crowded busy city street. I knew his haste, for it was also mine. I knew him, as the other sheep, bleeting & gambling by, noticed his familiar face. He looked at me with a hue of polite resentment; it twinged my heart to think that he cast this cold yet inquisitive look upon me, in my denim jacket & scruffy, well-travelled pigtails. In that longing, drawn out moment I realised with a shudder of self-revelation, that I could think of nothing to say to him. Nothing but the sheer velocity of thoughts springing into action within my mind escaped my lips - a tangled mess of words and phrases, barely audible in the crashing crowd. Though I think he heard me, in more than words, as through my weak heart and shrinking self esteem, I struggled out in jagged dialogue, two words I knew could do wrong, yet no right themselves. That uneasy battle that suffocates the thinking mind, the ones who cried & the ones who shrunk behind the dark too long. Two words I said, casually I said it so, but my blue-gold eyes had screamed it all. Leaning in towards his face, a strangers grasp at conversational grace, two words passed my pearl-shined lips, his unshaven chin gingery on the August summer's day, two simple words I knew would break through his polite exterior, and challenge the resentful stare that burned my guilty soul. A twinkle in his eyes, a smile - a smallest of touches, and a radiant Ka, my eyes resolutely in his: Good Luck.
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