Well here we are at week 275.
I’ve written quite a few short stories but I think I’ve only ever written one about a serial killer.
I didn’t really go into any technicalities, it was all about the aftermath.
Something happened this week that shows me that I’m not suited to do the type of research that is needed.
I first need to explain that I hate gardening. In fact there isn’t a strong enough word for my hatred. I would rather be at the dentist with no anaesthetic for an hour rather than spend twenty minutes in the garden.
I worry about anyone who enjoys this activity.
I’m not lazy, I will work all day at things that I don’t enjoy, but gardening ensues my wrath.
I’ve said to my neighbour if he’s ever going to sell his house to tell me and I’ll make sure I tidy up my version of Steptoe’s back yard where Hercules would get lost.
It’s rustic to say the least.
The first couple of feet is always the easiest to cut as I just throw my strimmer out the upstairs bedroom window,
I do like watching the birds that are encouraged into my garden due to the beasties that are chomping on my weeds. But the cats get the birds, the dogs eat the cats and I think I spotted a velociraptor eating some yeti type beast. That’s a circle of life that Mr John never sang about.
But kismet is a bitch. I decided after much moaning, cursing and kicking things that I had to accept that I couldn’t leave it much longer.
I went into my hut which is in the garden so I class that as my garden too and I don’t look after that either. I haven’t much felt left on the roof and the window blew out three years back. So I scraped back the weeds to open the door and when I opened it I had a decomposing cat which had oozed over my lawn-mower.
I wouldn’t have minded if the poor wee soul was recently deceased. I wouldn’t have even minded if it had been dead for a long time. But it wasn’t. It was not a rattle of bones and it wasn’t a fully formed cat.
It was soup. And the soup was wriggling.
My point is, we know serial killers are freaks, but man, when you have to move what they liked to play with as a kid, it doesn’t half give you the boak and an appreciation of what a complete and utter sick fuck they are.
But to be truthful, scrapping the cat up wasn’t as annoying as cutting the bastarding grass.
I wasn’t lonely though, I spoke to Jimmy Hoffa, Lord Lucan and I gave Shergar a carrot.
Okay, onto this week’s stories.
We had two new folks, two very industrious writers and me.
Our topics this week include; fishing, influence, opportunity, a ballad and a darker side.
As always our initial comments follow.
First up on Monday was Leila Allison. The site wouldn’t be the same without her.
‘Olivia And The Oraclespector‘ got us off and running.
‘Leila’s usual mix of cynicism, whimsy and imagination.’
‘A soupçon of ‘Awww’ at the end.’
‘I wonder how many thoughts float about Leila’s mind at any one time?’
Our first new writer was next up.
We welcome both our newbies, hope they have fun on the site and we want to see more of their work.
Don Stoll was one of those débutantes. His story ‘The Ohio‘ was published on Tuesday.
‘This did make a point and it was an exploration of sympathies.’
‘Perfect length and brilliant balance.’
‘This had a really great tone.’
I broke the back of the week with ‘Gina And Gary‘
It was a very short short.
If I had two short shorts I should call one ‘The Royal Teens’ Although I could never imagine enough debauchery to merit that whole scenario!
As always, I thank Nik and Diane for all their support.
Next up was the legend that is Mr Tom Sheehan.
‘Malaise and Benediction‘ nearly completed the week.
‘Beautifully written as always.’
‘This is really quite emotional.’
‘You can feel the love and respect all the way through.’
And we finished off with our second new writer.
We extend the same welcome to Alexander Sinclair.
‘Chicken Farm Blues‘ was published on Friday.
‘Dark and bleak – I like it!’
‘It’s sad when you think on the utter waste and cheapness of life.’
‘This is really quite brutal.’
Well, that’s us for another week.
Miss Anderson will never be forgotten! I wonder if she is still religious or has the pishness of the world beaten those beliefs?
Please keep commenting folks, it makes all the difference.
And why not have a go at The Sunday Re-Run feature. Just pick an older story that you’ve enjoyed, write a spiel or an introduction and throw in a couple of questions for the author. We’ll publish exactly what you send us.
I looked at our post number and I realised that it has been 275 years since the Jacobite Rebellion.
I am a very proud Scotsman, but I am only proud of being proud, there is a lot of things that folks hang on to whereas I don’t give a shit.
My thoughts on Bonnie Prince Charlie are not romantic. I am not a royalist so the only difference between an English Monarch and a Scottish one is their accent. An accent would never thin down my hatred for them all.
But old Charlie Boy does have one thing going for him. And it wasn’t any of the songs.
Have a look at Roger Whittaker and Des O’Connor singing ‘The Skye Boat Song’. It is fucking awful. I’m sure that it has its own room in hell.
‘Charlie Is My Darlin” and ‘My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean’ are maybe crowd-pleasers for those Tweedy Shortbread folks but the songs are terrible.
The only good thing about that ill-fated rebellion where we all ended up fighting with ourselves, (Not that that hasn’t happened before or since!) was that the recipe for Drambuie was founded for the wee royal prick.
Let’s embrace the idea of 1745 but with some good music.
Get pished on Drambuie, fight with your neighbours at quarter to six, listen to Frankie Miller singing Caledonia and seek out some images of The Fairy Pools Of Skye.
so – I was going with images of dead cats, maggots, overgrown gardens and then Hugh mentioned the Fairy Pools of Skye – I’d never heard of them and now I want to go – I really do. How lovely. dd