My father didn't like my writing - too much purple prose, too many words, not straight up and factual enough. (He'd been a journalist, understandably he'd prefer that style of writing.) Then I wrote one story set in WWI. It was a ridiculous story - I'd written it to fulfil ten or more gothic prompts.  It was meant to be silly. But for some reason, ( Read more... )

Maybe, maybe not. Who knows. But I have a paper diary ( Read more... )

Today I sewed lots of coats, wrote quite a bit, slept some and played in Heaven & Earth ( Read more... )

There's a place, I have gone.
There's a beast, And I let it run.
Now it's runnin' my way..."Was up early this morning in time for the postman. Opened the door and for a second - just a second, like a snap-frame in a horror film - half the guy’s face was falling off and the parcel he was holding was scuffed and bloody. I blinked. The postman looked ( Read more... )

( Part VII, the last. )

( Part VI. )

( Part V. )

( Part IV. )

( Part III. )

( Part II. )