Back to the drawing board.

I got this book from amazon a while back - its actually quite good - though I got it for £5 not the ridiculous £15 currently advertised, lets be honest there are enough free resources on the internet to make sure your never without an idea should you need one.

Anyway, I flicked open the book and the first line that caught my eye was this:
        "A woman searching for a long lost love finds him in prison"


Gotta be honest wouldn't be my first choice...but lets see where it takes us. Going to NYC tomorrow on holiday so I will do a bit of writing when I can, hopefully posting something next Wednesday.

MJS.

On darker tides the moon has waxed....

Note: The below post will not be edited, except for spelling and some grammar - once I type it, it stays as it is.

So I haven't written anything in a while, have I?....I could give many reasons for this but none of them would stand up to anything approaching scrutiny.

So back to writing...I recently, as an exercise, tried to write a list without thinking (off the cuff as it were) of things I enjoy. Not things I do,  but things deep down that I would do happily for the rest of my life. It was a short list let me tell you. The past year has been just a procession of waiting to go back to work and I think mentally I have struggled to cope. Like chinese water torture, the trick is in the anticipation rather than the deed.

For those that do not know, I work offshore on an oil rig, and as such have a fair amount of time off (about half the year) now with the exception of taking my girlfriend nice places I haven't done a hell of alot with that time - say, for example....write my first book, become a millionaire or get ultramarathon fit....

Which gets me back onto my original topic - I don't do anything I really enjoy, which means when something bad happens to me I have no escape, no outlet, from the anger or black moods. It just sits and stews, I bottle it up or it just sits there at the back of my mind, pissing me off. This means that I end up taking it out of the people around me who I love.

The last hobby I genuinely remember enjoying,  not just doing or being good at (there is a certain satisfaction from playing a good golf shot) but honest to goodness looking forward too, was writing the three short stories (that you can read on this very page) and reading them to an audience. It was only a little writing class of about 10 people, and to be honest the stories could best be described as 'raw' and at worst as 'shite' but still I enjoyed the reactions whether it was good or constructive (this was a 'friendly' group so instead of bad comments we had to make underhanded constructive ones instead....).

And....back to the point of this rather rambling post as I try and pull my mood out of 'black' to a kind of dirty grey. I have decided I am going to be more creative and give myself an outlet - even if nothing comes of it, as I think the last thing you should write a book for is too make money. I have had a book in me for a while now and its about time I stopped re-writing the same chapter over and over and just simply wrote the damn book.

So stick around as I will be posting my short stories here again - and yes they will be 'raw' as I have had little to no training, but hell - who wants to be formulaic anyway....If you could just do me a favour of commenting on the posts whether its good or bad, just let me know what you think - it wont offend me as I have always been my harshest critic.

MJS.

p.s. My list of things I enjoy:

1. Seeing new things and traveling to new places
2. Spending time with my parents
3. Writing but only when I can get feedback
4. Eating spicy food
5. Coming home to my girlfriend
6. Spending time with the friends I describe as 'close'

Told you it was short...

[Novel] Prologue

This is my idea for the start of a fantasy novel I want to write, its just a draft but thought it would be an okay idea to post it here - any other excerpts will have the [Novel] tag....i know, i know - its a tough code to break but I guess you will just have to work it out...


p.s. I know my grammar sucks, you know my grammar sucks, hell an illiterate blind newly born vole knows my grammar sucks so try not to let that spoil the piece....


[First Page - Blank except for the following]


No man or woman born, be they coward or brave, can shun their destiny – 'Inspiring' sign displayed on the Church of the Retakers recruitment centre in the Stew area of Telbaka.

But they can bloody well give it a good go though... - Graffiti Scrawled underneath.


[Next page and start of Prologue]

The wind howled and his mother screamed. A sound born of abject terror mixed with loss. The death of innocence given voice, and that voice was in pain.

A scream to wake the dead. Almost.

It brought the boy from the Nightmare, a mother's pain will do that. His eyes snapped open, adrenaline coursing through his young body. The priest was there again. Though this time he wasn't standing over the boy with his well worn leather belt in hand, that same arrogant look in his eyes, calling the boy a demon, devil worshiper or worse.

Cleansing the soul is a painful experience it seems.

No, this time the priest was bent over in agony awash with flame that was as black as the bottom of a well on a moonless night. Of the leather belt there was no sign. The flames weren't just on the priest though, they surrounded both the boy and the priest, seemingly holding the pair in a fiery circle.

The priest cried out for mercy as his body spasmed against the pain, praying loudly all the while to a god he had long since forsaken.  Even if the boy could have ended the torment he simply had no mercy left to give, it had been beaten out of him along time ago. The priest shrieked one last time and fell to the ground – dead before he hit. His body was contorted hideously in death just as his soul had been in life.

The boy scrambled to his feet trying to find a way through the fire that seemed to press at him from all sides. There was no escape though and he could feel the accusing eyes of the Priest on his back. All he wanted to do was get away and hide, be somewhere else, somewhere safe.

Looking around frantically, over the waist high wall of flame, he saw his Father was by the entrance to the house, trying to maintain a safe distance, holding tightly to the boy's Mother beside him.

“Da, Help!” the boy cried out, his arms outstretched as he stumbled forward a step but his plea fell on deaf ears. His father's expression didn't alter, he just looked on with that same stolid look on his face. The same look the boy had seen for the last fifteen years. As the boy moved, so did the fire, it pulsed in time with his breathing, always keeping him at the centre – every step he took forward, his parents had to take one back or risk getting too close to the black flames. This dance continued until they were pressed up against the wall to the farmhouse.

"Halt fiend!" his father shouted, holding the family sword out front of him, the first time it had been drawn in anger for years. The tip of the sword crossed over the edge of the black flame, fire crackled and when his father pulled the sword back out again, the tip had gone. The older man stood staring at it.

The boy saw it too, he didn't know what to say in response to being called a fiend by his own father. His mind was numb. In the background he could hear his mother repeating over and over “He's a good boy. A good boy. He's a good boy....” between great shuddering sobs as she gently rocked against her husband.

His father seemed about to say something again, then stopped, instead he gently pushed his wife away from him and took the sword in both hands ready to defend himself, defend his wife and defend his three remaining children with his life if thats what it took. His forth and eldest child was already dead - the demon in front of him just didn't know it yet.

It began to rain then, thick drops that splattered where they hit the courtyard, a slight breeze came with the rain, moving the fallen leaves hither and thither across the dusty stones. The black flames didn't seem interested in the leaves or the rain though, they passed through it completely untouched, it seemed content to hold its position with the boy at it's centre.

"Look what you have done!" his father declared pointing at the priests body while keeping constant eye contact, as if he was afraid the boy might pounce at any second. "You have brought great shame on this family today."

Looking back for the first time at where the Priest's body lay the boy found he could not drag his head away again. Had he done that? Was he really a Demon? All he could remember was the reading of the first psalm and the pain of the first blow. After that his memories were the same foggy haze of pain and denial that always accompanied the good priests educational visits.

The rain drove harder as it began to pick up momentum. The wind started to gust. A storm was coming.

A foot crunched on the path to the boy's right, he instinctively spun and the fire lashed out in the same direction. The family maid was hit square in the chest. It happened so fast. She didn't even make a noise.

She didn't have a chance.

Black fire covered her completely for an instant then just as quickly was gone as she collapsed. The sound of three frightened children scattering into the night could be heard for a moment before a haunting silence took control.

The silence spread its wings over the courtyard, drowning out the other sounds as it passed. All that was left in its wake was two men, one young, one old, locked staring at each other not hearing anything else except their own breathing and the rhythmic pulse of the black flame that separated them. The silence grew. It seemed to go on forever as no one blinked, no one moved. The boy stood in shock not able to accept what he had just seen much less acknowledge it might have been him that had done it.

It is said that words have power. The boy's old tutor has told him that, of course at the time he hadn't believed a word of what old Philester had said but he simply nodded politely and hoped the sun would still be out by the time they had finished. After all how could words have power? They were just noise, weren't they? but right now he wished that old Philester was here, he would know which words had power, which words could get him away from here, which words could make him safe again.

Words have power indeed, but so does silence it has power too and right now that was all he had so he used it, watching his father for any movement, any clue as to what he should do.

“What now then Demon?” his father said quietly, the silence had become too much for the older man, his words drifted out over the farmstead “Are you going to kill all of us?” he shifted his grip on his sword as he said it, getting ready to use it.
 
It was almost as if his father had stabbed him, himself. As if on cue the wind picked up again, breaking the silence's grip and running it off for now, his mothers sobs returned to the background and the wind howled in harmony.

“I..I..I didn't do anything. I can’t control it.  It's not my fault!” the boy faltered his vision blurred as tears began to form, he took a step back, then another and another all he wanted to do was run but instead as he turned he stumbled over the dead priests sprawling arms. Slumping to his knees “I didn't want any of this” he cried burying his face into the priest’s pristine white robes as he begged for forgiveness.

The Flames went out as if they never were. Two bodies on the dusty stones of the courtyard, one still twitching. It was the only evidence that something untoward had occurred this night.

Drawing back from the corpse the boy saw blood smeared on the cloak where he had buried his face. He recoiled back in terror of what would happen when the Priest found out. But he wouldn't find out, would he? He was dead, his last sermon delivered, his final devil worshipper hunted.

Dead. And it was all the Demons fault.

The gate rattled as the storm drew closer, the demon looked out into the darkness beyond. He knew he had but one choice, other than death by his Fathers hand. How could he fight the man who had raised him?

Struggling to his feet he looked into the eye's of his still sobbing Mother and saw nothing but fear. Turning his head to his father he squared his shoulders. Fighting down the urge to sob though tears fell silently down his cheeks he nodded at the older man once, the movement was reciprocated, an unspoken message exchanged. He probably had one hour before his father reported him to the church and the hunt began.

Then he was off. Through the gates and into the mouth of storm. Running for all he was worth. To survive one more day and one more day after that and another after that.

The wind howled in celebration as he ran, driving the rain with joyous abandon.

The storm's full power unleashed as the darkness welcomed it's own.

[SS] Memories of a warrior

The lights have gone off. A curtain is drawn and I’m momentarily blinded by a thousand flashes tapping out a rapid staccato as my life is recorded in a series of snapshots, each one a microsecond long. Taking one step onto the start of a plush red carpet, covering a grimy concrete floor, I notice that it’s frayed at the edge where years of glitz and glammer have taken its toll. A rueful smile etches itself across my features.

A gaping chasm suddenly appears in the sea of bodies. Edged with steel and men (in badly fitting suits) they repel the tide as it scrambles forward again and again. Faceless parasites with Nikon 1 clicks and no compassion for their fellow man attempt to get ‘the shot’ their editors-in-chiefs so cravenly covet. The blockade holds firm, as it sets out a corridor lined with waving hands and screaming fans.

Of all the places to take my life this is my chosen path, where a thousand men have tried and failed, their pain, sacrifice and toil nothing but a distant memory as the crowd expects, no! demands entertainment. They love a warrior. Someone who will continue until breath can’t be drawn from his body, a battered and bruised bloody mess lying on the wipe-clean canvas, but this only makes them hungry for more – the glutinous thieves of my life.

Starting the procession in earnest, my head clad in black silk and regrets – I am lost in thought, trying to center myself for the trial ahead. When first facing an opponent in the ancient art of pugilistic combat I truly believed that some choices are made for a man, and for some choices a man is made, by the end of that first night I was sure the answer was the latter. How foolish the young can be.

This part of the entrance goes past in the usual blur, having seen it all before; the drunken revelers chanting their chosens name, the business men showing off to clients, the bored trophy wives that have been dragged along by their all too-living rich old husbands, the A, B or C-list celebrities trying to get their faces into the media and me. Me walking the gauntlet of them all ready to die for their blessing…the rueful smile stays in place.

Stopping ten feet in front of my alter, my place of worship, where my soul is set free, my regrets flow from me like a waterfall in monsoon season and the old survival instinct of the hunter starts to take control. Eyes now closed, zoned out of my manager’s false praise and coach’s words of advice, still seeing it perfectly. A steel and canvas square construct, raised 6 feet from the floor, it measures 23 feet on each side with 7 feet high posts at the corners. The posts are connected via loosely tied multi-colored ropes – and woe betide anyone getting caught against them. Stools rest in two opposite corners and a man, standing off centre, with short sleeves and a dickey bow waits patiently for the contest to begin.

I look for my girl in the crowd, front row and center same as always, a worried frown creases her unblemished features – pangs of guilt hit me harder than any punch ever will.

With a wink to her that I don’t believe in I climb the stairs ready to put my reputation on the line, to defend my title, my honour and my legend. Greeting Mr. Broughton, under my breath, for the very last time in the process.

Sweat begins to run down my face as my opponent comes out into the arena, the younger man, the fitter man, the stronger man, the challenger to the throne. They say heart doesn’t cut it when there is nothing left to back it up but they obviously haven’t stared into the abyss as many times as I have without blinking. When a wolf pack corners a stag, one of the wolves is going to get gored. He is all ‘swagger’ as he greets the fans and stops for his own microsecond snapshots of his chance at becoming a legend. Seen his type before. He won’t last.

As the lights burn with an uncompromising strength, I feel a single drop of sweat running down my cheek holding for a second then falling to the canvas flooring as gravity wins the first fight of the evening. As it hits, I blink and 30 years have past. Still able to feel the trail of the sweat on my face, only now it’s a tear, as I stare out in to the black abyss again but this time it’s different, this time it’s full of empty seats, the silence mocks me. Last nights beer and stale popcorn strewn around like a hurricane passed through taking the baying mob with it.

One solitary light shines – barely illuminating the ring, holding back the darkness as it tries to capture me in its cool embrace. Off to one side caught in the lure of old glories, I silently cry, tears being shed, for forgotten dreams, for relived regrets and for lost loves.

Looking down my girl doesn’t sit front row and center for me anymore, gone to a better place the priest says. I miss her still.

The night guard calls to me in the background and the last remaining light goes out. The lamp element looses heat and light all too quickly leaving me standing alone with my memories, for once in a fight I wont win. 

The lights have gone off for one last time.

[SS] Room without a view

Even before my eyes were open I knew that there was a light on in the room, it was going to be strong and it was going to be sore. It turned that hazy period of blackness just before you gain consciousness into a cherry red as the light pierced my eyelids with its uncompromising luminance.

Better to get it over and done with then.

But before I had a chance and with precision-like timing an air horn went off with all the grace and charm of a brick to the face.

I opened my eyes sharply – then shut them again just as quickly – my head ached like someone was attempting the rumba with a blunt implement on the inside of my skull. Risking another look the light was still on and still sore, not sure why I expected anything else, just the natural optimist in me I guess...

Foregoing the pain I was inflicting upon myself with my ill advised game of peak a-boo I took stock of my situation. This wasn't my first rodeo, if you know what I mean. I was definitely fully clothed, definitely lying on top of a firm, yet surprisingly comfy bed and definitely had no clue how I got there. My head was spinning and my brain was having trouble focusing from one thought to the next, probably trying to stop itself leaking out my ears. And would someone please stop hitting that god forsaken air horn every 30 seconds…

C’mon, Sam get a grip

Opening my eyelids the bare minimum to let the light distinguish the room I tipped my head forward slightly to take in my surroundings. The room was no more than 4 metres square; it was clinical in its finish with a bright whiteness reflecting the light, making it all the more painful.

Everything in the room looked new – it put me on edge, it was the white – not the regular white you see in hospitals with a slight tinge of beige showing use and where the cleaners hadn’t been doing their underpaid jobs right. This white was the pure white when you look out the windows on a cold winters morning after the first snow of the year, unsullied by human touch. There was not a mark, scratch or blemish on any surface. The room had obviously never been used, it had the detached look of a room that would be used once, for one purpose then discarded. Ironically at this point I was sick on to the floor. It now no longer looked quite so white.

Ha. That will teach them – whoever they were.

The fact that I couldn’t remember last night worried me, instinctually my thumb went to the ring on my right hand’s index finger. It was still there, good, feeling for the rest of my possessions my wallet, phone and keys to my van were all still reassuring lumps in my jean pockets. The only item missing was my carving knife carried in the hidden sheave on my arm. So someone had taken the trouble of removing a hidden weapon but not taken off my potentially more lethal ring, assuming they knew what it was of course, and not forgetting the fact that that they would have to cut off my hand to get it but well….you never know. Waking up with one hand and a bloody stump is up there along with the old “village green, lamppost and nakedness” waking scenario.

With a grunt and a small whimper, I opened my eyes properly and swung my legs off of the bed onto the floor, putting my elbows onto my knees and my hands in my hair. My right hand came away glistening with congealed blood – ah that would explain the headache then. What the hell had happened? Last night was a blur, a distant memory that I couldn’t quite grasp – it kept slipping through my fingers just out of reach. The more I thought about it, the less I seemed to remember if that was even possible.

The practical side of my psyche realized that last night would have to wait; I need to know where the hell I was, and what the hell I was going to do in what appears to be a dental surgery designers wet dream. The not so practical side thought my practical side was an idiot and really just wanted to go back to sleep, the bed wasn’t that un-comfy after all.

Ignoring the need to sleep it all off, I stood up. Which proved to be all too much for my dilapidated body. The dizziness hit me like a wall, momentarily halting the process of getting to a vertical state. Shaking my head to clear the light headedness I looked down at the bed, the glistening blood on the pillow was the only sign of my time spent on top of the covers. I moved to the door – taking care to avoid my redecorating attempts from earlier. The door was a heavy steel construct with no handle, probably reinforced, I checked to see if it was unlocked, my paranoia could be all encompassing at times it would be nice to be wrong for once. The door chinked as it hit the frame and refused to move.

Damn right again.

The only other item in the room was a metal chair leaning against the wall, I turned to have a closer look and noticed the camera, attached to the corner above where my head had been lying, focusing in on me. Its penetrating red light showing my movements were being monitored, probably by some monosyllabic drone in a dark room, reporting back everything they saw. Well I watched movies, I knew how to stop that at least. Picking a clean pillow from the bed I used it's case to cover the lens. The last thing any hidden watcher saw was my middle finger. Sam 1 – Mysterious Bad Guys 0.

Walking over slightly unsteadily to the chair, I picked it up with the intention of testing the doors strength. It felt good in my hand, solid – something I could rely on. I took a breath and turned to swing it at the door – a mechanical voice suddenly filled the room “That will not be necessary 27615”

The door opened with an electromechanical buzz as the servo units driving it hadn’t had time to bed in. Bit of DW40 would sort them out, no problems. Once an engineer, always an engineer even if those days were a long time gone.

No light was on outside the room Can’t see a damn thing. It would be like stepping into the middle of a black hole but without the being horribly squashed part...or at at least I hoped so in any case. Scratching the back of my neck I considered my options, which were limited at best – wait in the light for Mr Charisma and his air horn to come and get me or go exploring in the dark with its unseen dangers and the very real possibility of lots of pain or worse…

Standing in the door way, half of my body in the light I looked back into the room and then back out into the darkness.

Ah hell, who wants to die of was old age anyway? – taking a deep breathe and adjusting the ring on my finger I stepped into the darkness. It embraced me like an old friend.

[SS] Reflections

Walking towards the meeting place Jon felt waves of revulsion and hatred pass over him in equal measure. He'd chosen the old restrooms, in the derelict police building in the bad part of town. He had not been back here since it shut down but he could still remember it in its glory days thirty years ago, a bastion against all that was wrong with the world. Somewhere a young homeless kid could be safe for a while when times got too tough on the streets. It was how he liked to think of himself; a safe place in the darkness but perhaps the building as it was now was a far better metaphor for what he had become.

As the door to basement restroom opened for the first time in what must have been years, the smell hit him like a wall, making his eyes water – yes it had to be the smell, real men don't cry, he had learned that early. He stopped for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the small amount of yellowy light that the street level window permitted to illuminate the room through all the dust and the cobwebs. As he moved further into the room he saw that the light gave everything a golden hue making the room appear almost piss-stained, though for all Jon knew it probably was.

On his left two, of the three cubical doors had been knocked, or kicked, off their hinges exposing dirty porcelain toilet bowls. On the right hand wall, electrical wires stuck out hap-hazardly where an enterprising looter had ripped the two hand driers from the wall. Leaving nothing but exposed brickwork and crumbling plaster behind. The old style garbage bin in the far right corner was on its side, its contents sprawled across the worn down linoleum flooring.

In the background he could still hear the hustle and bustle of the city getting on with its day to day life. Not caring about Jon or justice, just survival. Always survival. Get through today and your prize was to get through tomorrow. Hardly worth the effort Jon though. The dripping of a leaky faucet brought his attention back to where he was – strange, he thought, thought they would have turned off the water for this place.

Walking inside Jon stumbled slightly, forgetting that the floor sloped slightly towards a central drain, he kicked something as he did so only for it to go skittering across the floor to smash under the urinals on the far wall. Moving up to investigate, he saw it was a needle, probably used. So this building hadn’t been abandoned altogether then.

He turned to the left towards the offset wash area he noticed the other man for the first time, like a ghost from a bad dream, he looked like crap warmed up. They stood locked together, staring at each other refusing to blink, an iron test of wills that no one wanted to lose. Finally Jon broke the silence.

“Well?”

“Well what?! You know why we’re here.” Jon's mind was racing from 48 hours of far too little sleep and far too much coffee and sugary snacks.

“You left them to die!” The vehemence in the mans voice was almost palpable.

“No….No it wasn’t like that there was nothing I could do” said Jon his hands up, palms facing outwards in a sign of surrender.

“Pah – nothing you could do – you let a defenseless women and child die because you were to afraid to pull the trigger when you had the chance”

“I didn’t know he would have a gun, I didn’t know he would shoot…I didn’t know he was that unstable..I didn’t know………” Jon's voice faltered

“You knew, and you still ran” his tormentor continued, pressing home his advantage

“When he started firing I sought cover. Its procedure! I wouldn’t have been any use full of bullets”

“Like that lady and her child you mean”

“Yes…NO NO no…” Tears started to fall from Jon's eyes cutting new tracks in the grime and blood that hadn’t been washed off for the best part of two days.

“What is our motto…”

After a pause, Jon said “Populus Primitus” quietly. The tears were flowing freeing now, rolling down his cheeks and joining the leaky faucet with a constant drip drip drip onto the floor.

“Yes: People First. You put them in harms way by trying that stunt in the open, where was your backup, didnt you read the intel?! The guy was a phycopath”

Jon shook his head “The women shouldn’t have struggled when he grabbed her, he was desperate, she should have just done what he said”

“Would you have? It should have been you instead of them. Thanks to your incompetence their dead.”

It was all to much for Jon. Two days of running, of fighting, of killing, holding his emotions in check not letting himself feel anything until he was finished. The tidal wave of his grief came spilling out “IT WASN’T MY FAULT” he screamed, he didn’t know when it had happened but his pistol was out of his holster and pointing now at his accuser. 

“I got him though didn't I!" Jon continued "I hunted him down, he was punished for his crimes. He won't hurt anyone else, not him, not his gang, not his family. I got them all.” As he was talking Jon started to notice the blood that covered his clothes. He started to grin, the desperate look in his eyes that had been there over the last few days was back.

Not seeming to care about the pistol, his accuser sneered and continued “What does that matter now? You acted too late, you always acted too late. It was your fault their dead and you know it was. Which is why you are here now, why you cant sleep, why if you do after 20 minutes you wake up screaming, covered in sweat and why everyone knows you for what you are. A miserable coward that when the pressure gets to high ‘sought cover’…you make me sick”

Jon screamed and the anger took control, squeezing the trigger he fired bullet after bullet at his tormentor but the more he did the more the eyes just stared directly into his soul casting their damning judgement. He stopped with one bullet left in the breach.

He stood rocking gently mumbling “Not my fault” again and again rocking back and forth , back and forth. At least his accuser was gone.

He didn’t even hear the door open off to his left, but a voice called out from the hall.

“Jon is that you, where have you been? The whole station has been looking for you. …Why did you want to meet me here? Jon...Jon maybe you should put the gun down and come with me”

Jon looked at the row of shattered mirrors above the wash basins and then turned to the doorway.

“No Sir, not anymore Sir” and he smiled a smile of acceptance. “I got them Sir. I got them all.”

Putting the gun under his chin, Lt Detective Jon P. Gerity of the Washington D.C Police Force pulled the trigger and ended his trial, finding himself guilty of failing in the line of duty and all other charges.

1st Post and an explanation

...to read this short story?

Okay friends, so this is where I am going to keep my short stories. Good. Glad we have that sorted and you understand the name.

Apparently the best thing you can do when you want to write, is write and write and write and truth be told I perhaps don't do enough of it even though it is about the only activity in the world that when I am doing it I don't think I should be doing something else. There is a lot of bark and not a lot of bite, as it were...

So my aim, if I may be so bold, is to write one short story every 3 days, this gives me one day for the concept, one day to flesh it out and one day to edit the crap out of it. This is of course only when I am onshore (I currently work on an oilrig in Brazil which is alot less fun than it sounds)...

Anyway, to wet your appetite I will post 2 or 3 short stories I wrote about 2 years ago when I went to a creative writing afterwork class - let me know what you think, good bad or indifferent.

Cheers,
MJS