Based on personal experiences, a fictional village is coming to life in my mind.

Some of these ideas are making it into an attempt at a book.

Maybe, one day, the book’ll finish and I’ll see about a kindle version or something.

For now, enjoying the writing and the making up of it all satsifies the craving.

This piece, although not in the book, is based near the fictitious place I’ve dreamed up.

I really hope you read it, and that you enjoy it.

Thank you.



Away in the village, a man sits crying into his hands, into the darkness, into the night, a light outside casting shadows upon him and his wife can hear him crying, she can’t do anything for him and she’s tried, she’s tried to console her lost man however he sobs on, and on, blaming his inadequacy, blaming his short sightedness, blaming everything he can think of about himself as the reason.

Away down the road rides a flame-haired teen, gripping tight as a passenger to her majesty, riding the bollocks off a chopper, riding high on her victory over her anathematic nemesis father, her conquistador-philiac dad, her poor, defeated pa, long gone, she is now, her choice chosen, her voice risen, her being riddled with pomp and her soul ridden by her lover.

Charging across aerodrome road, a mile and a half of straight road, no fog tonight, no cars about – it’s far too late – with a small bag crammed in a pannier, nickers and a t shirt all she’d time to grab, not caring, knowing there are shops about where you can pick up new duds fairly fast, if she needs, she might be dead in a week but it’s her freedom now, that’s her trade, it’s her choice, in her power.

Exams and ratings, never her thing, victim of a dense but wilful father, victim of a system gripping her into conformation, refusing to go that way – blue hair and nose rings, tattoos: body art – banned from school, banned from home, banned from a life she never wanted and free to pursue herself into her future, liberation earned in harsh disapprovals, interventions and talking to’s.

Heck, who can live with zombies, who can exist as the masses try to mash you  into their ship, their conglomeration of sadness, unimaginability their stock in trade, their only hope to live through the icons who represent, don’t live like them and, ultimately, exist as fleas and leaches on the society the boring and the humdrum create for themselves.

Gone is tea and cake, gone are afternoon snacks and brownies from Mum, gone are mealtimes with requiems of the day, of ratings from Pa, of demands to evaluate self against a marker, a reckoner of self worth and gone is watching her father’s mental masturbation as he waxes lyrical about his own day, his values and his opining upon this, that, the other in horridly stupid perspectives, unrealising his own shame, his own humiliation at the drivel-dribbles he performs daily.

Her hyper intelligence sees through the chaff, the scum of smoke and mirror self-aggrandisement, congratulation and impression – here she sees only the reality of her, her own perspective and dispisation of life’s greatest distraction, of that career mill, that workaday reality so used to impress upon the vulnerable young the virtue of doing something stupid for a hundred years, until you die with regrets, like all the rest.

Live now, regret never by making solid, positive choice and acting upon instinct, not following that path of sensibility and streuth, striving for something you’ve heard of, can’t define and won’t know if you ever get, or not, and will die wondering about and never fully understand, but she has a vision, a reality version quite distinct, and she wielded her intellect, with this incisive bludgeon, upon her unsuspecting Dad, though long had he known it’d come, keeping himself in denial just in case he’d been wrong.

One of the numbers, one of the statistics of himself, a shadow life in a pre-empted haven, the like of which all folk have whilst aspiring, fighting, for more and more and more with each other, treading on heads to get ahead, knifing backs whilst looking back, persistent sinners absolving self with propaganda tirades self-thought, self imagined and ingrained into brains the length and breadth of the country.

Worlds collide and her world smashed her father’s aside in her intention, in her need, her desire, her necessity, her tirade of life against a power unseen, non-existent and spare, her father’ll never taste another life, another way, but she has hers and it’s cost her a family but she is growing into a new one, a safer, more supportive version and yelling hell into rushing air she feels her lover’s tits through motorcycle leather, thundering into herself.


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