Blackout Darkness summons the moody angst, And romance of an inner evil; A force the subject fights against, Or submits to, welcome thinly veiled. Not this dark. Not MY dark, In darkness, loneliness is fetishised, Sorrow overspilled. All words just masturbation in the dark, Wishing, calling others to your circle-jerk. Not this dark. Not MY dark. The sun retired, Moon in cloud, Power cut, Batteries drained, And candles lost to a dusty cupboard. THIS is my dark. And it's darker than any of yours! And I shuffle about, Stub my toe, And curse the darkness. I cannot find my paintbrush, Anymore than I could point it to a canvas. I cannot find my books, Nor read them if I could. I cannot see my friends. Not can I hear them because they do not call out for me; For they are not here. They're power must still be on, Their televisions saturating them in celebrity rich effluent, For they forget me. So in the dark I do sit. And it IS moody and filled with angst. And you know there IS a monster I barely make the effort to fend off. What's more I AM lonely and I DO want others to join my circle-jerk of romanticised misery. The monster and me, possibly the same, Cry salty white tears, And wallow in shame. Not a soul would shine a light in this self indulgent, misery soaked hole. Who could blame them for looking away, When I can scarcely look at myself; Stood knee deep in my own stinking self indulgence. My haunting darkness is NOT: Special, Unique, Or darker than anyone else's. Nothing special for me, Nothing special for anyone in a hole like this. Can I see the monster doesn't exist? Stop wallowing before I drown? Climb walls slick with shame and self loathing? My self made prison overthrow? ...or live forever in the blackout?

Ingenious App I just posted a comment to someone's Opuss and upon submission received the message: "Great Comment". Of course it was absolutely correct but how does it know? ;-) (j/k)

Fiend and Magic Man Slumped against a mossy rock the Mage gazed through the fire to the large rounded stone opposite that had clearly been used by others setting camp in this area before. He looked on anxiously and called out; “I know you’re there. Stop this foolish dance and come in to the firelight where I can see you.” He waited but received no response. This made him ill at ease for the friend, or indeed fiend that he knew was hidden from view was vicious by his very nature in being. The Mage had come to know him over many decades being haunted by him. He had known his fiend to enact terrible havoc and savagery upon the lesser, limited men who dwelt together in towns and villages. He had no love of those brief beings and had himself tormented and tortured some of their number in his time. Men, however, had their uses; and his fiend made for difficult living in a world where simple men’s artifice allowed him the freedom to carry out his own mystical endeavours. The Mage also knew his fiend would delight in tearing his throat should he ever be so foolish as to fall asleep while the fiend was near. It sought out his power and appeared to covert the staff the Mage carried – though he could never understand why as it was merely his walking aid. Many was the occasion that each would come so close to their goal - to rid the world of the other – though each would surely fail. Too long it had continued; the fiend was courting him, teasing, scheming, and he had never triumphed. Nor indeed had the Mage, despite his best efforts. His tired eyes looked on through the dancing light and growing frustration and anger welled up inside him as he sit there, exhausted in the cold, damp night. “Come out, Demon!” From behind the stone, the demon crawled. It winced in the brightness of the firelight and came to sit tentatively across from his Magic Man. Its sense for self preservation kept it poised and ready to attack though it was pleased for the shield that the fire provided. It snarled and spat and made its foul noise at Magic Man as was its want, at which the man across from the fire bleated like the woolly beasts of the mortal’s fields. It never understood what Magic Man expected him to do as like all mortals his instincts were indistinct. Many moons past, the Magic Man called the Demon into this world. It knew that it existed before but not in any way that reconciled with this existence. It had always hungered for chaos and destruction and knew that it lived in this state. Coming here, it had so much to rend to nothing, so much violence and hatred to inflict; this world called out to be burnt to ash. Magic Man bleated again, more softly this time. It watched for his grip to loosen on his staff but though his eyes blinked heavily the grip remained firm and resolute. It had learnt not to trust Magic Man when he closed his eyes. It had gotten close to him more than once but Magic Man, filled with guile, had always managed to escape the glorious savagery it longed to impose upon him. Magic Man had never given it instructions. It would have done his bidding had he shown it what to do. Since it was free, it would seek out horror and chaos to revel in but was always drawn back to his Magic Man. It wanted to fight with him, to live in chaos with him, to work for him, to kill him and give him pain. Why Magic Man always chased him and tried to stop Its endeavour It could not fathom. It was angered by this and as those thoughts now rose in Its conscious It snarled at him again. It saw Magic Man jolt upright and grasp that mystical staff that he always held so close to him in a fighting stance. Magic Man was fierce and this nurtured an alien attraction in the Demon. It jumped up onto its stone, crouching low and poised to leap through the flames, snarling. AUTHORS NOTE: Written in around 2008 this germ of a story was written as part of a short creative writing course. I don't recall the brief for this story but it's one that I would like to return to at some point. Criticism and feedback both very welcome.

Making Time Waking up a few minutes before the alarm goes off; a person might count their blessings and wait for the inevitable noise to rudely interrupt their slumber. Time can be very elastic at that time of the morning when all you want to do is grab another five minutes sleep. All the things that seemed so important you had to get up early for seem less so when your pillow is still warm and inviting you to stay a while longer. However it was some kind of noise: a thud… something falling over maybe? ‘That bloody cat’s got in again!’ He surmised in that hazy way of one facing the prospect of leaving a warm bed to go out to work. Sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes he blearily looked over at the clock. He quickly reached out to stop the alarm with less than a minute to spare. With the self-satisfaction of one who has just prevented a bomb from exploding just seconds before the timer ran out, he looked across to his sleeping wife and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Fu…” He almost shouted, before remembering himself and settling for a few grunts of discomfort which he had hoped where sufficiently muffled so as not to disturb his wife. “What time is it?” she asked as she rolled over in the bed. “It’s 60am, sweetheart.” He replied. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go on back to sleep.” “What’s all the noise?” “Nothing. I just stubbed my toe on something. It’s okay. Go back to sleep.” He said softly as he looked down to see what was responsible for his throbbing toe. In the dim light he could make out what looked like a very thick book, without cover. Something like a manuscript was his best guess. Having to get ready for work he shoved it under the bed with his foot, without much thought to his still sore toe. His working day passed uneventfully as working days often can, though his mind did insist on recalling the manuscript on the bedroom floor. He could not imagine where it had come from or why anyone would have left it there, but since he was at work, he paid the thoughts little heed. Upon returning home, greeting his wife (who got her Friday’s off) and recanting the minutiae of his day that he though was even slightly noteworthy, he headed off to the bedroom to shake off his work attire and see in the weekend with something more comfortable. Sitting on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes and socks he paused, wondering if it would be silly to check below for what he was sure was a manuscript this morning; after all he might have still been half asleep. He sought out the heavy tome and finding it was as real as the hand that groped for it, placed it on his knee. The cover simply read “The Time Machine” and had some manner of graphic like a solar eclipse or something like it. The first things to come to mind were Morlocks and Eloi. But looking at the size of the book, he didn’t remember the film being long enough to have warranted a screenplay of such magnitude. With growing curiosity, he flicked through and landed on a random page: “…placing the cylindrical copper element into the niche in its side. It is important to note at this stage that these instructions are best read from the beginning. If it is your intention to complete the project then you must follow the directions in order. Now take the second element and…” He flicked through a few more pages, again stopping at random and reading part way down the page: “…with the fillings. Essentially, this manual must be followed from the beginning. If you need help finding ‘the beginning’ then refer to the contents page at the beginning! See page 1.” With no short supply of scepticism and a thoroughly furrowed brow he took one more shot at the random approach. This time he found a heading, this seeming a sensible place to pick up from: “Constructing the 13th Manifold Hint: For the beginning, turn left and keep going until you run out of pages” Sharply closing the Manual, as he now knew it to be, he tucked it back under the bed and headed for the kitchen to help with the evening meal. Right now he needed an anchor in reality! AUTHOR'S NOTE: "Making Time" was started around 2008 as part of a creative writing course. I was only supposed to write the set up but if anyone wants spoilers I can tell you how it's supposed to finish. Feel free to leave feedback and criticism.

Fredrick Julie was a schoolgirl. Fredrick; he was not. The day he went in the girl's loos, was the day that he forgot! The girls, they did not like it, They began to scream and shout. Fredrick saw where he'd gone wrong, And just wanted to get out. In haste he zipped his trousers, And ran toward the door, Headlong into Head Mistress Potts, Before bouncing to the floor. "Your parents shall be called in, And well hang posters in the halls!" "The girls must know this peril; There's a pervert in the school!" Fred's father was unhappy. "You've bought shame on our good name!" His mother interjected: "What will the Vicar say?" The next day in Assembly, he was called up by the Head, To give sincere apologies. And this is what Fred said: "Yes! I was in the girl's loos," "But I'm not the one to blame." "I was born much too late," "To have besmirched my family name." "I have an explanation," "So, your insults, please don't hurl." "I'm Fred-er-ick the Schoolboy," "In a school that's all for girls!!" About This "#poem" Written in 2001 on a whim. I was in the mood to write and my inner monologue seemed to be endeavouring to rhyme with itself so a half hour later I had the very silly "Fredrick" saved to disc. Some have said its a bit Pam Eyres but I think thats quite a disservice to her. This will probably be the last of my old poetry if I can't dig up anymore.