Well, this is something different. Leila has unearthed our store of images. Not those ones that Hugh hid in the corner for when he wants to stick pins in politicians – No, the ones scattered through the stacks. This is what she said:
Well another week has come and gone in the usual seven days.
We have been inundated with submissions but not many success stories. Only one about a guy who won an even money shot at the dogs. He loved the dog in an inappropriate way. The dog died. It was one of the more acceptable romances. It was called, ‘I Need To Stop And Walk Round To Give You A Kiss.’
Ultimatums arise, spread wings and words selected by energies:
Listen; The mercury is resolved. Beneath my hand Earth passes
a quick shadow, recollects the distinction of breath. New feathers
find warm wing to grow from. Cup and juice, Earth and seed, are
one. The secret is the grip. By the finger nails if need be. Mostly
by one corner of the mind, an edge where roots strike, curl like a
rattler. Sometimes the heart’s enough.
All writers have that one bugaboo story that refuses to finish. It’s as though the damned thing has something against you, and would do anything to mess with you, even to the point of sacrificing its chance of appearing anywhere in the Universe. My bugaboo story is called Renfield and the TomTom Ghost. It has been in production for two years, yet not even a hundred words have been “shot.”