Sunday, 7 February 2010


[I wrote this for a flash fiction competition. It didn't win. but I like it anyway x]

Jason trembles as he turns the key, and I smirk. The door opens. I follow him in. He stumbles, and I laugh. His floundering fingers fumble for the switch. Light makes everything clear.
I follow him around the shop. It’s pristine: the stained floor re-tiled and the dirty walls scrubbed white. He washes his hands. I stare. I’d never known a man’s hands, never imagined they could be so: soft and warm on my skin. The pain had been nothing to have him touch me.
He turns on the radio. I de-tune it. He sets out his instruments. I jostle them. I want to pick them up and hurl them around the room, but I haven’t the strength: not yet.
I wanted to throw things at my funeral too. I heard the sniggers. “Blood poisoning? From a tattoo? At her age?”
Jason thinks he is sorry. He will be.

It's been a while...

It's been a long time since I felt able to turn back to this. Briefly, created blog, got very manic about what a brilliant idea it was, then dropped down and down into even deeper depths of depression, not forgetting to delete my musings on these pages in the process. That's the problem with depression, it creeps into everything and leaves nothing untainted. For what it's worth, here's a little excerpt from my book, 'Bad Blood' in which the central character continually struggles with his depression.

"There were so many things Ewan felt he must do throughout the next four weeks to loose himself from the black, sticky mud of depression which had engulfed him of late. In truth, he was never, ever free of its sucking, oozing grip, but he was so accustomed to its presence that he was unaware of its stench, oblivious to its impact upon him. He had been mired for years. Sometimes it was like a black smog and suffocated him, but mostly it was just there, tainting everything with its poison. Even his current mania for setting everything right emanated from it. Ewan thought he was flying free above the clouds into a realm where everything is possible. In reality, he was lashing himself tighter to the mast of his stuck and sinking ship."

I suspect it might be thought of as being a bit sad to quote from one's own work, but it is the most eloquent description of this horrible affliction I've ever voiced.

And it doesn't matter if no one reads my meanderings and musings. This is just for fun.
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