Murky Depths...
Current mood: excited
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers

Murky Depths is out again and inside can be found one of my illustrations. Michael J DeLuca's short story Misty Rain had enough miserable weather and menace to give suitable inspiration for this:

Granted, I took liberty with Michael's creature, which had a more spectral appearance in the story but I chose a more fleshy approach. I felt this more suited my style. Note the juxtaposition of squashy, organic weird on the right with angular, iron reality on the left.

Glad to be involved again. The guys are doing great work producing something that excites, with talent left right and centre. Even if you're like me and find comic strip off-putting, fear not as there's plenty more to it than that. There's something for everyone inside. If this is your thing, grab a copy, give it a whirl and show your support.

01:13 - 7 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

Here In My Car. (820 words.)
Current mood: okay
Category: Writing and Poetry

My new car is all I thought it would be and more. A little black number, the paintwork gleams under moonlight. I open the door and climb inside.

I ease into the seat for the first time, a gentle give under my weight creates the impression I've sat there for years. Upholstery is smooth, warm, comfortable, just a hint of luxury. There's ample room everywhere, even when I adjust my driving position, with all the important gadgets within reach; CD player, vanity mirror, a drinks holder embedded in the dash.

I place my nocturnal extravagance in the holder. Steam from the coffee condenses on the windscreen, obscures view of the steep cobbled road to the slipway. Harbour life at this time of night teeters on nonexistence, surf that laps the shore the only excitement in this miserable hole. I wipe the windscreen. Grease smears appear in my hand's wake and I stare at the ocean. Its waters are as inky black as both my coffee and car. Waves roll back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

I reach for the visor to reveal the covered vanity mirror. A neat trick manufacturers use to avoid distraction whilst driving in sunshine, although the sun isn't shining right now. Hasn't done so for as long as I can remember and here I am at night anyway, so what's the point? I flip the mirror's cover.

My reflection I no longer recognise. Instead, there's this weird looking guy in my place. He peers at me as I look back. A shock of wild hair that hasn't seen a comb in weeks frames a drawn, unshaven face. Cheeks are hollow. Eyes are sunken and lifeless, corpselike, rotten to the core. They eat into my own with an insatiable appetite, gnawing away like a starved animal eager for a scrap of compassion. It's in vain, there'll be none found here tonight. I look away, and catch a glimpse of his attire. At least the guy made an effort in that regard.

I push the visor back to avoid scrutiny and turn on the CD player. I retrieve a disc from inside my jacket and offer it the slot. The mechanism operates without a whisper, quality that came with the expense of the vehicle. Music envelops me, a shroud of comfort and tender warmth inside this metal casket that protects from hostility and harsh frigidity.

Steam once more obscures part of the windscreen. I feel compelled to draw a happy smiley face. Together with my name scrawled underneath and an underscore. I complete the visual medley with an exclamation mark. It makes little difference although I prefer the company more than that freak behind the mirror. Steam fills the expanse of glass. A fine mist more at home upon the surf creeps beyond the extremities of my gaze. It blocks out sight of the harbour, the restless waves, silhouettes of roofs and chimney pots against the moon. It blocks out everything and I'm left with nothing. Moonlight seeps through the lines my finger traced. Smiley beams at me, as though nothing in the world mattered, that everything was alright and when morning came, I would be the talk of the town for all the right reasons.

I look at the handbrake. It's almost vertical. I frown at the thought of the delivery guy yanking the ratchet without care. It would take some effort to release, to let gravity pull me towards the ocean, waves wash over my car, silt from the bay seep through, add weight, send me to irretrievable depths of oblivion. But that isn't my intention. I want to be discovered.

My key fires the ignition, sparks my car into mechanical life. Music stutters. The purr of the engine just audible, it comforts and Smiley becomes animated from vibrations. He gleams as though with delight, an angelic face amidst clouds of coffee steam that thicken. I wonder if the hosepipe will hold long enough but soon the thought becomes no concern. I breathe deep, noxious fumes relaxing muscles for the first time in what feels like forever.

I wonder who will pull me from my tomb. I wonder if they notice I made an effort; that I dressed with taste; that I chose this car; that I wanted to go out in style. I wonder if they catch my name or sweep my existence aside and resell my car unmarred. Unlike my previous car. The dent from her tiny head on the bonnet would never go. You can patch over and polish, even replace but character can be flawed forever. Will mine ever be pristine again?

I wonder all these things and more as I drift to happier places amidst heavenly clouds jostling with Shiny Happy People. My lips widen to a euphoric grin that mimics Smiley's, my one true friend who spent a brief time with me, here in my car.

00:58 - 6 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

The Forlorn Widow. (5200 words.)
Current mood: okay
Category: Writing and Poetry

Your face was fresh air on a summer's morning, your skin pale, no blemish to mar a beauty matched only by finest porcelain. A surface I longed to touch. Like your lips. No doubt refreshing, intoxicating if lingered upon. I was an observer, an admirer from afar, my gaze searching for connection. Your eyes had a depth that concealed sorrowful times. I stared for what felt like hours, lost myself in a place you knew and I could only imagine.

****

            "Aye laddie, she's a real beauty, there's no denyin' that!"

            The voice came from behind Jonathan Walters. Clear as a bell in the morning silence, the only apparent sound in air deadened by mist. He turned, breaking his gaze with the utmost reluctance, in fear the lone figure at the end of the jetty would vanish into ethereal vapours for good.

An old man slouched atop an upturned crate, amidst the paraphernalia of coastal life, slurred words through puckered lips as he sucked on a pipe that contained long used tobacco. "You 'ear me, laddie?"

            "I hear you, old man."  Jonathan's words were half-hearted as he returned his gaze to the motionless figure at the far end of the dilapidated mooring: A woman, dressed in a black gown that enveloped her from head to toe. Folds of fabric fluttered around her youthful face, revealing feminine features of outstanding beauty.

            "Heh, you like 'er. I know you do. I've seen you down 'ere before. Lurkin' around the 'arbour, waitin', watchin'. I'd say stay well clear. You know nowt." The old timer returned to his task at hand. Knurled fingers repaired broken twine of fish nets seen better days. He stopped amidst a more awkward section and scowled. "You still 'ere? Ain't you got anythin' better to do?"

            "I'm not sure... I'm new here..."

            "Not sure, laddie? What's up with ya? Heh, you're new?" A wry smile cracked his sea-worn face wide open like an ancient treasure chest as it opened on rusty hinges. A set of black, tobacco stained teeth emerged from within the filthy maw. The old guy's pipe dropped to his lap which caused him to spit ancient sea-faring curses about why in damnation Jonathan hadn't said such a thing earlier. "A new laddie in town? Tee, hee! Now there's somethin' you don't see every day! Gotta name?"

            "Jonathan. Jonathan Walters." He extended his hand to shake the old sailor's. Upon seeing the withered man's encrusted with unmentionable filth, he thought better. "Came here last week. Got myself a place at the guest house." He pointed up the slipway, a cobbled affair that headed towards the junction of Flotsam and Jetsam Street.

            "Oh boy, a room in Penny Coate's old place? The old witch ripped you off with rent, yet? Or does she bore you with stories of Still Water? Or better still, creep into your room at night? Slip into your bed? Young laddie like you! Get her blood pumpin' fast, you would!" The old man chuckled, as though acknowledging an obscure private joke the villagers here shared. "Listen up. I'd not wander down 'ere too often. Especially when the widow's lurkin' up there..." He shoved an arthritic finger towards the jetty. The solitary woman remained at the furthermost tip, gazing across the bay as though she scoured the surface of the water for something lost. "And especially not when mist rolls in..."

            Jonathan pushed his hands into his pockets. Fog thickened, the temperature dropped and the sound of clanging bells rang out from the local sea watch. Overhead, high flying gulls circled the bay. A sure sign bad weather was imminent. "I should tell her to go home..."

            "No, laddie!" A firm grip closed around Jonathan's wrist. The old man lurched forward, his morning's work scattered around his feet, ruined. "Laddie, be told! You mustn't. She'll find her own way back, eventually."

            Jonathan grimaced and prized the old timer's skeletal fingers away in disgust. A glistening liquid that could only be fish slime smeared across his sleeve. He felt nauseated, wondered why the old man objected to what he thought a polite gesture. The ancient mariner growled like the old sea dog he was, a guttural sound filled with warning. It was evident he was no longer welcome around the tiny bay, the best idea to head back to Penny's run down guest house for shelter.

A chance glance towards the rotten jetty revealed the widow still there, her back to the coastal village, eyes fixed out to sea. Fine tendrils wrapped around her like a living entity, an embrace that engulfed her within moments. No sooner had he saw her, she had vanished from sight, together with the bay, the jetty and the harbour. Except the outline of the fisherman who appeared unfazed by the atrocious weather. Jonathan's eyes failed to pierce the morning fog, so he turned and strode up the street, the widow's image imprinted on his subconscious.

****

            There was never any question I had to see you again. Only with each visit there came the agonising time I would have to leave. And with each parting, there was the sensation of my heart being broken into the tiniest of pieces. A fragment of my essence left behind, unbeknown to you, all too known by me. Were you even aware I watched? Aware I lingered near neglected, moored boats, studying your partially hidden features, exploring the map of your face with the intensity of an explorer? Each time I saw you it was morning. Each time I saw you mist rolled in and took you away from me.

****

            "The widow got to you then?" Penny Coates thrust a plate of what looked like offal under the nose of Jonathan. He looked at the greasy arrangement of eggs, bacon, black pudding, mushrooms and tomatoes swimming in dark liquid that could've been water from the toilet. He forced a smile to acknowledge receipt of breakfast. "Speak up. I can't hear you."

             "Who is she?" Jonathan lifted a fork with hesitation. He stared at the food, food being a rather strong word to describe the haggard woman's cooking, cooking also a rather strong word. "I see her there every morning. Have done so since I got here."

            "You will every morning. Until she finds what she's looking for."

            "And what's that?"

            "What we all look for: Love."

            Jonathan placed his fork down upon the worn table and glanced at Penny. At her mention of love, her withered lips parted in such a disgusting smile it made his breakfast look appetising. "Love? She's a widow. She's loved before."

            "That doesn't mean to say she don't want it. More so. She wants what she lost. You're young. I don't expect you to understand that. Enjoy your breakfast..."

            Jonathan watched the old woman's withered form shuffle off towards the kitchen. Not before he noticed her pause and glance at a photo of an elderly gentleman. Penny caressed the picture frame as best as her rheumatoid fingers were able, smiled the same abysmal smile before continuing her painful journey to the rear of the guest house. "Be sure you eat them tomatoes," he heard a shrill voice instruct, before trailing off to a bronchial cough.

            "But who is she?"

There was no answer apart from incessant coughing.

            After a decision made not to attempt the old woman's breakfast, Jonathan left the rather unwelcoming morning room, ventured out into the streets of Still Water with the aim to visit the local bookstore for answers. It appeared the store owner would be knowledgeable of local lore. He thought that would be the case, judging by the little card propped up next to his bedside lamp in his run down room. He had taken it, pocketed it and now glanced at it again:

            The address was printed on the back. Not that far from Penny's poor excuse for a guesthouse, a short distance from the harbour itself, which meant a stroll past the moorings, another chance to catch a glimpse of the forlorn widow. Without a doubt she was there, stood as ever with her gaze fixed far out to sea, her black cowl ruffled by morning breeze. Jonathan buried his hands deeper into his pockets, stuffed his nose into the top of his jacket, head to the floor in an attempt to avoid being distracted.

            Chimes startled him as he entered the tiny shop. Not the only one to be startled, as a tiny bird in an even tinier cage fluttered in fright. Loose feathers, dust and seed showered around the counter it was placed upon. Jonathan watched the little critter settle, its beady eyes glared with disapproval in his direction. Not the only pair either. As through the gloom a middle aged woman stared at him with unblinking eyes. He smiled, apologetically. "Fanny?"

            "I am." She edged nearer her pet in a movement that suggested she glided rather than walked. It was an observation that made Jonathan uneasy.

The bookstore was a dismal affair, a characteristic he was beginning to think mandatory for the entire village. Heavy wooden bookcases lined every wall, books of every size imaginable crammed upon dusty shelves strewn with cobwebs. A huge array of nautical artefacts lay here and there, which explained the strange smell of sea air mixed with musty old books. The stench hung heavy, covered the faintest odour of ammonia. Jonathan watched Fanny scratch herself in the most unpleasant manner as she soothed her startled bird. He shuddered. The place looked like a witch's hovel. All that was missing was a black cat.

            "Stupid man scared you and Kitty," mumbled Fanny as up onto the counter sprang the filthiest black cat Jonathan had ever seen. It purred as it received an affectionate scratch behind its balding ears. "You're not here to browse. Are you? They all do that. Browse and never buy..."

            "The widow. I want to know about her, I thought maybe..."

            "Ha! I knew it! Another fallen for our widow! What do you know, Kitty?" She scratched the cat's ears again. The animal's approval increased in volume as it eyed Jonathan with intensity. "Kitty says you're different. Kitty says perhaps you may be the one. Kitty likes you. Kitty says I should like you too." Fanny turned to the tiny bird stuffed in its cage. She poked the bars with a finger and gave the cage a rattle. "What does Birdie think?" The bird twittered something that was remarkably like words. "I agree, Birdie. I think this man needs to know..."

            Jonathan caught the eccentric woman's full gaze for the first time. It was then he realised that Fanny was in fact blind.

****

            I found few answers at Nook and Cranny, only demented ramblings from the resident witch. Stories. Just stories. Tales of local folklore that weaved imagination around reality in a bid to offer escapism for the frustrated souls caught here in Still Water. Because what was said just wasn't possible. To even think such meant I was to question all I believed. Although there was something stuck in my mind more than explanations as to who had caught my heart. A question. A simple question. Another to add to those I gathered.

****

            "Why are you 'ere, laddie?" It was the elderly fisherman. Sat amongst his usual toil as though he never left his spot, as though moulded from the very filth that was seaweed, fish remains and his sorry tangled chaos of nets. Still ruined and still in need of repair. "Laddie, wait, you dropped..."

            Jonathan stopped as the old man retrieved an object from the ground in a movement that was physically painful to watch. He heard joints pop with the effort and roused him from his thoughts of the widow, feeling guilty for not assisting. Twisted hands thrust an object into his. It was his wallet. "Not answerin' me?" The fisherman's gravel voice abrasive, it scratched the surface of his mind free of a little of the smothering filth that appeared to cover all rational thought since his arrival in town. "Why am I here?" Jonathan mumbled as he opened his wallet. He stared at a picture contained within: A woman with a seven year old girl amidst lush green foliage of idyllic rural life. An image of a family moment distant and now forgotten as he stood in the clammy clutches of coastal mist.

            "Who are they?"

            "My wife and daughter..."

            "Aye, I thought as much. Then why are you 'ere? Least of all showin' an attraction to the widow?"

            "I'm not, sure..."

            "There's nowt 'ere for you. Go 'ome, laddie."

            "It's too late for that..." Jonathan looked towards the jetty. He caught sight of the now familiar silhouette at the furthermost point. The faint breeze tugged at her cowl, teased it away from her head. Long dark hair tumbled free, a cascade of fine locks tussled against her porcelain features, eyes still fixed across the gentle waves of the open sea. Even at this distance, it was easy to catch the glimmer of moisture from tears. "Do you think it's true? The story?"

            The old timer grunted. "Aye. It's true all right. She's waitin'. Waitin' for the day he'll come back. He's gone. They're all gone. Lost at the bottom of the ocean along with their ship."

            "I agree with that part. It's the other part I'm having difficulty with."

            The mariner chuckled. "Ha! The part they say that 'appened at the turn of the century? Take it or leave it, laddie. Just be sure to keep away from her. She only brings 'eartache to all men who look at her for any length of time. You're not the first."

            "What happens to these men?"

            "They go crazy. Jump off the jetty. Drown in despair. Such is her effect. She lures men like you 'ere, lures them to their doom. Not sure why she does. I don't know what she's lookin' for."

            "She's looking for love," Jonathan mumbled again as he repeated the word's of Penny Coates, "looking for something that offers a sensation of completeness." He folded his wallet, pushed it into his back pocket. About to leave, he felt the now familiar cold grip of the ancient fisherman.

            "You sure you're still talkin' about the widow, laddie?"

            Jonathan tried to pull free, his jacket sleeve riding up his forearm, exposing his wrist. He squirmed, aware the old man could see. The ugly scar ran from one side of his wrist to the other, red, fresh looking. The fisherman's eye's met his with no visible sign of judgment.

            "You really can't go 'ome, can you?"

            Jonathan didn't reply. His gaze was fixed once more on the widow.

            "And you really think she 'old's the answers?"

            Jonathan yanked his arm free, aware the fisherman's gaze still held him tight.

            "Empathy, eh? But she's lost much, what 'ave you lost?"

            "Everything..."

            "Family?"

            Jonathan flinched at the word and gave a slight nod of his head. "We lost Emily. A terrible traffic accident in the city. Her little broken body smashed to a thousand pieces like an old pot doll. They did all they could but she was beyond help. We were lost, our world shattered like Emily's. When I first found her, I thought my wife was sleeping she looked so peaceful. The doctors said she took an overdose. I thought we were managing. I was wrong."

            Weaving a thick needle through his nets, the old man continued his eternal repairs, not fazed at all by Jonathan's story. As though it was nothing new to him, in fact, as though it was nothing more than the usual baggage folk were burdened with around town. "I think we both know why you're 'ere, laddie. We all 'ave our story to tell, includin' our widow over there. But I'd say you're not a part of hers. Don't decide to make it so, else you end up like her. Lost."

****

            Why am I here? In this godforsaken place that smells of death? An empty shell, void of life, a husk of a man I was. I feel doomed to spend my nights restless. What little sleep there is, filled with a vision of beauty I know holds the key to my salvation, despite strange locals and their attempts to uphold any belief to the contrary. You and I, there's a connection, a bond so strong it soothes away the intolerable pain of loss. I needed the courage to approach, touch, kiss...

****

            "That egg no good for you? Speak up, dear."

            Jonathan stared at the boiled egg nestling in a dirty wooden egg cup cracked with age in a similar fashion to Penny Coates. He cringed to think what microscopic monstrosities were, at this very moment, waving at him from within their hive world of fracture-dom.

            "Eat up, what's wrong, don't like eggs now?"

            Jonathan forced a polite smile as he picked up his spoon and stirred the runny yolk turned pale with the equally runny egg white. After yesterday morning's offering, he thought best to stick to a simpler breakfast.

            "Fresh last week and been warming in the laundry basket ever since. Gives it more flavour. So my Ma used to say."

            Tomorrow, he'd stick with a stale bagel.

            The egg was promptly whisked away by Penny, the only further culinary action it would ever see, much to Penny's outward dismay, Jonathan's delight. He felt sick. Fresh air was what should be on the menu but that morning, just like any other, was a grimy affair. Through the aged nets that looked every bit as though they were once used to catch sea trash, he watched mist creep along the street outside. Where there was mist, there would be the widow. Where the widow was, answers would not be far away. The decision was made. This morning he would approach her. He slung on his jacket and made his way to the door, glad at last to be free of the smell of Penny's foul kitchen creations.

            "Fanny was asking after you."

            Jonathan stopped before he stepped outside. He stole a glance over his shoulder, his ear pricked at the mention of the bookstore owner's name. "She wanted what?"

            "Just asked if you'd stop by her shop sometime. Has something you may find of interest. A book."

            The book in question was a huge tome, almost two feet high and a just over a foot wide, almost as thick. Just how Fanny by herself had located the thing, least of all retrieved it from its home amongst the dusty shelves, would be forever one of life's little mysteries. Regardless of how it came to be upon the counter, the fact of the matter was it lay open, waiting, as Jonathan entered Fanny's Nook and Cranny. Kitty and Birdie, one mangy creature either side of an equally mangy creature being Fanny, greeted him not with a sound that may be called friendly, instead something that made him feel as though really, he shouldn't be there at all. "Penny said you wanted to show me something." It was obvious it was the book. He just thought it at least polite to ask.

            "We three thought you left in a hurry yesterday. That you didn't believe. It was Kitty and Birdie who persuaded me to show you this. Thank them. Not me." Fanny's unblinking eye's burned holes into Jonathan's whilst the witch's familiars purred and twittered respectively.

            "Really?" The thought of the moth eaten things communicating with Fanny was too much to bear. What did he know? Perhaps they could? He was beginning to believe almost anything was possible.

            Fanny stabbed the text with a bony finger, so hard Jonathan half expected either the book or the woman to disintegrate, become more dust to adorn the shelves of the miserable store. Instead, a cloud of the stuff billowed out from between the pages, what little light there was illuminating it with glorious diagonal shafts, sunbeams struggling to lighten the mood. "Don't believe? Look."

            Jonathan sighed, stepped forward and read. The book was an encyclopaedia of local lore, categorising crucial events that shaped the town over the course of centuries. It only iterated what Fanny had told him. But the aged photograph printed upon the pages showed clearly several men and women gathered in the foreground, behind which, resting in the bay, was a huge fishing boat ready to sail.

            Fanny spoke, her brittle voice startling Jonathan's interest in the picture. "I don't tell lies, see. It's all here, in black and white. They were destitute. The men folk launched a fishing expedition as a last attempt to become solvent. Despite warnings of a storm they sailed, only never to come back. Every one of them perished. All the men of Still Water gone. Just like that. The grieving widows eventually died from broken hearts. But death couldn't stop their angst until one by one they gave up their search and damned themselves. They called the place a ghost town. It was decades before folk settled here again. Said it was doomed, cursed. In some ways, it still is. All but one widow never gave up hope. A part of her soul lingers here today. Look closely at the photograph. Do you recognise her? She's our widow."

            Jonathan's eyes hadn't left the image, transfixed was he by the face of a beautiful young woman stood proud alongside her husband. He swallowed hard.

            A chipped fingernail crept across the sepia coloured image as though feeling for a position. It came to rest above the face of the man stood next to the beautiful woman. It was hard to think Fanny was blind such was her accuracy with navigation. "There, see. It's that face I wanted to show you. Tell me if I'm wrong but isn't that you in that photograph?"

            Jonathan hadn't looked up from the page in all the time he'd been in Fanny's presence. A sense of disbelief had a stranglehold on him yet the evidence was clear. It was him in the picture. Or at least, the similarity was such as to cause his heart to miss a few beats. But that wasn't all. Something else far more startling had gripped him by the throat, threatened to squeeze the last of his breath from his lungs. Light headed, everything that Fanny said from now felt distant.

            "She's been waiting patiently for your return. And only now can you go to her. Imagine how she must feel? Hundreds of years waiting? Choosing to stay here for fear she may miss your return? All she can do is lure those like you to her, to test, identify. They say love can stretch beyond the grave. Prove that and return to your wife."
            "My wife's dead."

            "Your wife in the last life, yes. But you have lived before. You were born a long time ago. You ache from your core, I know. It's your heart calling your soul mate."

            Jonathan turned back his jacket sleeves to reveal the cruel cuts. They began to seep as though fresh but there was no pain. He clenched his fingers and the wounds gaped open.

            "They'll heal. As does everything. In the end, life has a funny way of working things out. There's still time to put yourself at rest. If rest is what you want."

            Jonathan looked at Fanny. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, fixed upon his. Below, Kitty meowed and placed a paw upon Fanny's hand. Without moving her sightless gaze, she scratched the black cat behind its balding ears. "It's OK, Kitty. I do believe he's got the message."

            Jonathan caught a glimmer in the bookstore keeper's eye. He raised his hand, waved it gently inches from her face, extended a finger and almost touched her pupil. There was no reaction.

            "I have more sight than you could possibly imagine." She stroked Kitty and gave the cage of Birdie a rattle. The cat purred and the bird twittered. Jonathan glanced at both, then back at Fanny, who for the first time, smiled.

****

            To think I lived before is absurd. Yet somehow, it makes sense. Those feelings of despair, helplessness, emptiness, solitude, suddenly have purpose. They were the widening cracks in the hull of my life. I'm not just grieving. I'm grieving for a past life, lost. Compounded effects of anything so often become intolerable. Yet I have the power within to ease this suffering that consumes even beyond transcendence. And all I have to do is reach out.

****

            The walk to the harbour was a blur for Jonathan. Each step was punctuated with the toll of bells from the sea watch. Fog was imminent. So many thoughts raced through his mind he barely had any coherence left to scribble upon a tatty piece of paper he had taken from Fanny's bookstore. Damp air made its surface wrinkle. His pencil broke many times but he persevered. Writing in haste a note he realised he should've made a long time ago. But who should he give it to now?

He thought of Penny Coates scuttling between the kitchen and breakfast room, serving up swill to another lost cause. Probably mumbling about how tomatoes should be eaten in copious amounts. Whilst staring wistfully at the groins of her male guests and then equally wistfully at her late husband's photo. Hung crookedly on a wall. With fingerprints of tenderness smudged across the glazed expression of the portrait's subject. Perhaps Penny wasn't the best recipient?

Fanny's Birdie and Kitty would probably eat his note whilst the unnaturally sighted blind woman floated across the hovel of her bookstore's floor. Or maybe Fanny would eat it herself? Chew on the paper for days before spitting the papier-mâché out and forming it into a voodoo doll of his semblance? She knew too much already to entrust with something as valuable as his innermost thoughts.

Which left the ancient fisherman. Forever sat at the head of the harbour, weaving twine amongst nets that never appeared to mend. Chewing his pipe, cursing as knotted fingers failed to make the same progress they used to back in the day. Rooted to his upturned cages dripping with moisture, encrusted with barnacles that threatened to adhere to his very legs, turn him into a statue symbolising everything that the town wasn't anymore.

Jonathan thrust his finished note into the old man's shaking hands. "I don't know who should have this..."

The seaman, startled, dropped his nets and fumbled with the paper. "You know laddie, it was only a matter of time. Should your wife arrive 'ere, I'll let her 'ave this." An arthritic hand mottled with liver spots waved the letter to distract Jonathan's gaze away from the jetty, away from the widow.

"Thanks... But I hope to see her sooner than you think. If you see Emily, tell her we love her." Jonathan was muttering, his eyes fixed upon the figure stood once more at the furthermost edge of the wooden gantry. Mist rolled in around the dark shape, a gentle sea breeze teased back the cowl that had wrapped the widow for centuries.

"There's been talk in town. I'd never 'ave thought you were the one, laddie. No. I didn't see that one comin' and not a lot gets past these old eyes! Seen a lot they 'ave. But this'll beat everthin'. You sure? I doubt there's any comin' back from this. Not like before."

"Certain..."

The fisherman grunted. "I'll miss our widow. But I suppose we all must rest eventually."

Jonathon by now was already crossing the wooden walkway. He could hear his footsteps upon the old timber hollow like his heartbeat, dull thuds that appeared to slow as he approached the object of his desire. Black tatters streamed out behind her, fluttering in time with a magnificent shock of dark hair. Smooth, porcelain features became more defined, revealing the detail of her beauty was greater than what he originally thought. He opened his mouth to gasp. Instead, a gurgle came from deep within his throat. From the corner of his mouth trickled a clear liquid, accompanied by a salty taste.

About halfway his moment slowed as though something weighed him down. Jonathon glanced at his feet. Water seeped from his shoes, dampened the planks and ran off their edges to the calm surface of the sea below. His clothes became sodden as though his very flesh oozed the ocean. Every step closer became an agonizing test of endurance. Feet dragged across the surface of the jetty, a trail of moisture, seaweed and rot glistened behind for gulls to sweep down and peck upon. Modern clothing fell away in tatters, revealed ancient rags and sallow skin preserved by the depths. Wounds healed and were gone. Everything he thought he was became nothing more than flotsam. Saturated, ruined beyond recognition, replaced by centuries of drowned memories. Time had begun to reclaim the one person the widow loved.

Jonathan staggered to her, an ethereal spirit that became as translucent as the sea itself. Her eyes were filled with tears, tears that welled and fell across the delicate surface of her skin. But not tears of sorrow as they had flowed for so many years before. Tears of joy. And as Jonathan watched each one fall, she turned to face him.

"My love, I have been waiting for you..." Her voice had all the melancholy of a whale's isolated nautical lament.

Spellbound, Jonathan gazed deep into her eyes and swam into uncharted territory. He felt her hand against his withered face, her body move closer and velvet brush against his numb lips. The kiss was worth the wait. He lingered, entwined with his lover, a heady sensation carried him away as he felt his weary body become part of both his true love and the mist itself. As the two reunited souls dispersed across the ocean, a part of Jonathan imagined it caught sight of a saddened, aged fisherman sat amidst the paraphernalia of coastal life. It thought it saw the old timer glance at a tattered fragment of paper, the last thoughts from a person named Jonathan Walters. Someone who had lived before and at last found his way home.

****

I don't blame you for what happened to Emily. I don't blame you for what you did to yourself. And I don't blame you for what I did to myself. Fate dealt us a cruel hand but life, or rather unlife, is fraught with intricacies that I'm only now just able to comprehend.

I was shown a picture of you. In a book. Where I stood near. I know now who we are, who we've always been, why we're drawn together. We're all splintered remnants of vessels lost upon oceans of time. Where, what part and how much lingers when we're gone? I don't know. But I know you lingered here, in Still Water, waiting patiently for my return.

Waiting for the right time when we could face eternity, together.

And I'm glad I found you.

Again.

07:10 - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Operation wren!
Current mood: good
Category: Pets and Animals

I've had wrens nest in the back yard, in ivy that's attached to the side of the house. It's been a delight to watch through the kitchen window parents dart back and forth between the yard and outlying undergrowth.

This morning I've been distracted with a god-awful racket of chirps, loud enough to hear from my studio. It's been irritating to say the least. Every time I've investigated, I could see nothing untoward and fledglings were the furthest from my mind. That was until I fixed myself a coffee later in the day. Glancing into the yard, I saw a tiny blob with wings and a beak trying with all its limited strength to fly over the gate. It's a solid wooden affair and the mite just couldn't get the height needed to fly over. After seeing adult wrens fly to give it food, I realised their young had fledged and were now trapped in my back yard, screaming for help. Investigation confirmed this, as I saw two or three more blobs flutter on the ground, sheltering under patio containers, shrubs and rockery stones, desperate to escape the neighbour's cat's inevitable arrival.

I'm not one to interfere with nature but these wrens needed help! No sooner as I had made my way to the gate, unbolted it and opened it wide, I was surrounded by teeny-tiny beating wings. Little wrens were already squeezing past, clinging to the wall before making a mad dash to where Mum sat calling them from within the safety of undergrowth a few metres away. It was the right decision and before long the backyard was once more quiet, the sound of happy wrens making their way into the bigger world now the correct distance away.

Needless to say, that little contribution must've racked up some points in my favour in the whole cosmic balance thing. Can't wait to cash them in!

08:51 - 11 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

More flotsam on the shores of Still Water.
Current mood: bouncy
Category: Writing and Poetry

Anyways, just thought I'd warn of imminent arrival of super-massive blog posts. Feel free to ignore. I just needed somewhere to post them so I could link from my profile page...

23:57 - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Local council go bin mad.
Current mood: amused
Category: Life

My local council has come up with a remarkable solution to recycling and waste management.

Not.

See, we already have a system whereby a black bin is used for general waste, a green bin for garden waste, a black box for tins and bottles and a blue bag for paper. The black bin gets collected on time, every week. The other three get collected whenever the guys feel like turning out to work. So it appears. I got sick of seeing tins, bottles and soggy paper festering outside my house so now I don't use the 'service', instead try and recycle the items myself at the local recycling centre. As with everything, if you want a job done well, it's better to do it yourself.

The new super efficient system? No less than four wheelie bins. If you were confused by the previous set up, then check this: The existing black bin will now be used not for household waste but for tins, bottles and plastic bottles. We'll get a new grey bin for the household waste, a blue bin for all paper and card and thankfully, the green bin will remain for garden waste. Not sure what'll happen to the black box or blue bag. Perhaps end up in the grey bin? Or is that the black bin? Hell knows.

One thing's for sure is the neighbourhood will be dappled with a nice new plastic rainbow come September when this ingenious plan comes into effect. Imagine every single household with four huge wheelie bins. That's an awful lot of plastic on view.

It's bad enough at the moment but soon folk my way will need a degree in bin mastery. In fact, there'll be 'open days' where if you're in doubt of where to put your rubbish, you can have a morning practicing at some joyous public gathering. With coffee and cake. I can hardly contain my excitement.

Whilst it's fair to say it's great the North West of the UK is combating the issue of waste and recycling, I have to question just how green this new system really appears. I'm all for cost effective, sensible recycling solutions but think about this scheme for a second. The manufacturing process involved for all those coloured bins, the distribution and the collection by more thunderous, fuel guzzling vehicles, new recycling centres, a visual eyesore, cluttering pavements and public rights of way, vermin, the list of questionable points goes on and on.

I haven't any solutions to an ongoing problem but I feel the answer lies at source.

Practically anything you buy these days has a wrapper, some card, paper and a huge box. There's absolutely no need to pack stuff so damn secure. Broccoli shrink wrapped? And I don't want or need most of the crap that comes through my letterbox. Including two free local 'news' papers that informs me Mrs Smith's poodle got ran over and five hundred telephone directories that asume I haven't heard of Google, Altavista or Yahoo. All tat. All ends up in the bin. Black, grey, blue or green, take your pick.

If manufacturers and organisations cut back on the amount of packaging and junk they send out, we wouldn't be lumbered with half as much waste.

Currently listening : Relish By Joan Osborne Release date: 1995-03-21

23:04 - 12 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

The Ashen Eye & Murky Depths.
Current mood: okay
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers

The literary and illustrative project The Ashen Eye will be publishing an old favourite short story of mine, Emily and the City. Being a new magazine amidst fierce competition, it's commendable it managed to launch. Hope it sees life past its premiere issue. As a contributor, I'm up on the website. Have a peek here.

And talking about new genre magazines, Murky Depths looks like it's going from strength to strength. I've been asked to illustrate again for issue 5, the piece coming along fine with delivery to the editor expected before 11th July. Looks like I'll hit the deadline with something very characteristic of my style.

I'll post an image of the completed illustration here when the magazine's in circulation.

Currently playing : Alone in the Dark Release date: 2008-06-24

05:47 - 5 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Circa 1949.
Current mood: amused
Category: Life

A clear out of the loft over at the 'house project' revealed some interesting finds. Tucked away in the darkest corner wasn't the skeletal remains of the previous owner as I feared, rather a crate filled with a couple of mementoes. A bottle of Caribbean rum was one, with the rum still swishing about inside. The other find, a Bakelite radio. Both were thick with dust. Both looked ancient. Or at least fifty years old.

I'm not normally interested in retro stuff but I couldn't help rescuing the radio. Unfortunately, it doesn't work, which isn't surprising but it was interesting to see the original valves inside intact. Not that I'd have a clue how to repair the thing. Maybe I'll clean it up and use it as a paper weight? Gut it, polish the carcass and install a modified digital radio instead? Then sell it? Or just shove it in the bin?

After poking around on the internet, I found information about the old company and the actual set. It all began to get a bit geeky but fun for a few minutes. Check it out:

For over a quarter of a century ULTRA have been pre-eminent in radio research. During the war, hardly any R.A.F. 'plane left the ground without some ULTRA component; and now, ULTRA radio and television have again taken their place among the technical leaders of the world. Our radios are now leaving England regularly for every part of the Globe, while here at home the London City Council has chosen ULTRA for its great new school-broadcasting programme. You too can be the happy owner of an ULTRA radio - there is a model to attract every taste - and, more important still, every taste is superbly met.

Ultra's portable radio, 1949.

Ultra's portable radio, 2008. I can't find where to put the CD or MP3 files...

What worries me is the fact this radio is almost sixty years old, which means there's every chance that bottle of rum is also sixty years old! Wow-eee, imagine the paint stripping capabilities of that liquor!

What the hell's rattling around up there? I could have a bottle of something with the power of nitro glycerine, rocket fuel or worse:

12:24 - 21 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

Creativity - back on the agenda.
Current mood: hopeful
Category: Life

Who said 2008 and was going to be a great year? Granted, it hasn't been a bad one so far. There've been a few good points worthy of note but nothing that has me foaming at the mouth with wild excitement. No more than what I normally experience when in a good mood, anyway. Sure, I've had one or two acceptances in magazines, I took steps towards tackling deliberating moods and I've spent six months involved in a mammoth 'buy-to-let-type-thingy-project.' All nice, all have varying levels of success but I still feel as though I'm waiting for my year to kick off. Some of what I'm currently experiencing no longer cuts it for me.

I sound ungrateful but I'm not really. Take for instance the aforementioned project. Of course I'm fortunate to be involved in, contribute towards and benefit from the potential rewards. It's just it isn't personally my own dream. I'm part of that dream, of which it's wonderful but it isn't all my own creation. Not that I wish to sound selfish, either. It's just I've shoved my own ambitions to one side in order to help others reach theirs. Very noble that sounds but I'm not daft and can see all my hard work over there will really bear fruit. In a few days it'll all be finished for good. Just before any tenants move in and start paying the mortgage, I'll scoot around with a camera and get some kind of blog together. But if nobody rents the place, I'll be seriously considering moving in myself.

It's been exhausting work for all involved. The only real negative is an unavoidable trade off from the positive. Imagine being an elastic band stretched to its capacity for six months and then being released. I've had a birthday, which I always love, will soon be going on holiday which will be awesome and to cap it all, Fathers Day will be buried in there. Come mid July, I'll have reached an abrupt stop, mentally and physically worn out. To say I'm a bit apprehensive of how I'll be around then is an understatement. The acid test for stuff I learnt at the start of the year from a nice young lady who told me it was alright to be how I am and not be too hard on myself. I already knew that, I'll still try but I feel those close are anticipating another nuclear fallout a-la November 2007...

Of course, the backup plan is total immersion into my writing and illustration. Get the Still Water, Vol 1 project done and dusted to my liking (hopefully complete with all artwork) and crack on with the enviro-thriller novels following the adventures of Allen, Rick, Sam and Tina. The last time I saw those two guys and two girls they were in a turf war in the ruins of Venice, trying to save the city and mainland from obliteration. Not to mention a scrape with a hostile invisible entity in a remote arctic outpost. All whilst they juggle several personal issues. That's always on the menu.

So there's plenty for me to get excited about. Just as long as I don't send any of it out to publishers or agents I'll be OK.  The strain can be too much and very damaging. There're other options available, although I'm not entirely convinced those are for me. It would certainly save the frustration. Note I said frustration. That leads to the heartache, not oooh, my precious writing/art has taken a beating in the playground. Come here my precious, precious, darling, I'll nurse you better.

I amuse myself with the thought that one day I'll discover, to my joy, a little e-mail nestling in my inbox with a suggestion, or better still, a proposal. Obviously, it doesn't work that way and never will. Or if it ever did, it would turn out to be the next-gen spam message. I've been away from the whole submission procedure for quite a while. I doubt things have changed. The end of the year will have the answer. Slush pile here I come, I suppose. Here's another random thought - are publishers and agents papier-mâché enthusiasts? Huh? Eh? Or origami enthusiasts? One of the two, for sure.

It'll be interesting to see what happens over the remaining six months of the year, now I'm slowly focusing back onto my own personal ambitions, dreams, desires and ultimately, creativity.

08:44 - 14 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

Possibly the best lawn mower ever?
Current mood: amused
Category: Pets and Animals

With the weather being decent of late, outdoor tasks become more enjoyable. Such as mowing the lawn. Especially when it involves a comfortable chair, a cool beer and good music, all as your pet rabbit does the work for you. Cue Poppy.

01:05 - 11 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment