Silly, silly boy.

Fear the power of the Chicken Sigil! I went in to make a small edit and this happened. I am clueless as to why but have left it here for posterity.


So%2C+I%27m+going+to+self+publish.%0D%0A%0D%0AI+know+that+the+immediate+reaction+of+90%25+of+people+in+the+writing+industry+will+be%2C+%27DON%27T+DO+IT%21%27+and+generally+I+agree.%0D%0A%0D%0ASo%2C+why+then+RJ%3F%0D%0A%0D%0AWell%2C+cos+fer%2C+as+we+like+to+say+up+here.++%0D%0A%0D%0AI+still+believe+wholeheartedly+that+self+publishing+is+a+daft+thing+to+do+with+a+novel+if+you%27re+an+unknown+writer.+Even+if+you+hire+a+really+good+editor+then+there%27s+publicity+and+convincing+people+to+review+it.+For+myself%2C+there%27s+also+an+important+el+two+or+th2Bwe2Bother+people+get+to+enjoy+them+then%2C+well%2C+bonus%21+In+the+meantime+I+get+to+indulgee+into+what+I+have+done+to+get+over+the+self+doubt+that+lurks+within.+Self+publishing+a+novel%2C+to+me%2C+is+the+same+as+admitting+it%27s+not+good+enough+to+be+published.%0D%0A%0D%0ABut+the+stuff+that+we%27re+publishing%2C+through+the+nattily+named+%27Abraxan+Chicken+Sigil+Publications%2C%27+isn%tU%2Fs1600%2FInt27s+L9.jpg%22+imageanchor%3D%221%22+style%3D%22margin-left%3A1em%3B+margin-right%3A1em%22%3E%3Cimg+border%3D%220%22+height%3D%2232ampagne+Shivers%27+and+nominated+for+the+James+B+Baker+award+for+literature.+I+still+wouldn%27t+have+considered+publishing+them+myself+if+I+hadn%27t+been+approached+by+a+friend+%28Mikko+Sovijarvi%29+who%27s+a+publisher%2Fartist%2Fdocumentarian%2FFinn+saying+he%27d+like+to+illustrate+them+and+let%27s+do+something+with+them.+++++%0D%0A%0D%0AI+do+this+%28and+the+occasional+poem%29+for+the+pleasure+of+playing+with+words+so+it%27s+cool+Mikko+likes+them+enough+to+give+up+his+time+and+if+two+or+three+other+people+get+to+enjoy+them+then%2C+well%2C+bonus%21+In+the+meantime+I+get+to+indulge+myself+in+working+with+a+friend+and+my+love+of+outsider+art.+I+think+the+results+will+be+interesting+if+nothing+else+and+that+makes+it+worth+while.%0D%0A%0D%0AThere%27ll+be+a+facebook+page+soonish+with+some+images+on+it+for+those+interested.%0D%0A%0D%0A*EDIT*%0D%0AGo+here+%3Ca+href%3D%22ttp%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fpages%2FAbraxan-Chicken-Sigil-Publications%2F265551826797686%3Fsk%3Dinfo%22%3EAbraxan+Chicken+Sigil.%3C%2Fa%3E+if+you+could+like+it+that+would+be+good.%0D%0A%0D%0AHere%27s+an+image+-+%3Cdiv+class%3D%22separator%22+style%3D%22clear%3A+both%3B+text-align%3A+center%3B%22%3E%0D%0A%3Ca+href%3D%22http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F-SG6F4Uqtk38%2FTl4G4t-wsWI%2FAAAAAAAAADI%2FRj8PtnvFKtU%2Fs1600%2FIntFINAL9.jpg%22+imageanchor%3D%221%22+style%3D%22margin-left%3A1em%3B+margin-right%3A1em%22%3E%3Cimg+border%3D%220%22+height%3D%22320%22+width%3D%22226%22+src%3D%22http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F-SG6F4Uqtk38%2FTl4G4t-wsWI%2FAAAAAAAAADI%2FRj8PtnvFKtU%2Fs320%2FIntFINAL9.jpg%22+%2F%3E%3C%2Fa%3E%3C%2Fdiv%3E%0D%0A%0D%0A%0D%0A

More stuff.

This was published, a long time ago. Before I was ill anyway. After publication it was nominated for the James B Baker award for literature. Didn't win, which I think was the right decision. Anyway, then I lost it. I think it was on an old computer and didn't copy across for some reason. But... yesterday I found an old floppy disk and there it was. Not sure I like it now but thought I would put it here in case someone else did. If you do, pass the link around, thank ee kindly. *tugs forelock*


The Social Diary of a Ghoul.


Monday is soup day.
Fiendish nails clikker-clack in the bottom of the cauldron searching out bone and gristle to chew. Eager mouths gulp down wet warmth and dribble liquid down dirty clothes.

Tuesday is plant day.
All morning I, kabbkikkorack, Maushaleya and Rishtatish dance in the dusty earth of desiccated gardens, throwing up clouds of parched earth which give a pleasing smell to our ragged clothes. We steal roots and forage for berries. Tuesday is a hungry day but the warren is brightened with pale colours and glorious red.

Wednesday is a quiet day.
Wednesday we rub old fat and small dead animals into our glorious lank fur. We sit quiet and stonelike. Maushaleya tells stories and we laugh until tears roll from our single eyes. Sometimes we shred each others wings as we are low and forbidden the sky. We are not allowed to forget our ancestors sins.

Thursday we try to catch rats.
Rats are quick and hide well. The warren is loud with our cries of frustration. My throat throbs as I join my brothers in our endless sad song.

Friday is fish day.
There are no ponds anymore and the brotherhood dare not venture too far from our home. We seldom have fish.

Saturday is a day of hunger.
Saturday we hunger so badly that we think the creatures in our bellies are scratching at our insides, trying to escape. Saturday is a hungry day and we eat dirt.

Sunday is glorious.
Sunday the furless ones come and they wear evil smelling garments. But they bring us joy. They bring the great boxes and bounteous harvest for us. They lower sustenance into the ground we are bound to and we know we shall dig tonight. Dig and feast.

Monday is soup day and fiendish nails clikker-clack.

Messing

I really like this but I'm 99% sure it will never be published. I imagine if a publisher got this they would just presume I can't use punctuation and skip to the next one. Anyway, I wrote it ages ago and will never sub it anywhere so I thought I'd stick it here.




Interment


I tried to tell My mother she should burrow in the garden but she can’t hear me and her garden is so beautiful I know she won’t want to spoil it burrowburrow in the garden Mother even though it’s where you poured your tears and the flowers are so pretty please burrow in the garden butshejustgoesoncrying and cleaning the kitchen so I shout as loud as I can shoutingshoutingburrowburrowinthegardenMotherburrowand.

I can’t breathe.

I try to tell my Father he should burrow in the garden burrowburrow in the garden Father I flit around and tell him but he’s so lost in fixing his car he can’t hear anything but the growl of the engine and if he did listen to anything it would be myMotherstearssoloudinhisears but I try to tell him listen to me Father burrowburrow in the garden don’t just fix your car burrowburrowwithyourshinyspadeandforkandthe.

I can’t breathe.

I try to tell my Sister she should burrow burrow in the garden not play with dolls and I think she almost heard me she looked up thenheardmyMothercrying and put her hands over her ears don’t do that Sister listenlisten and burrowburrow in the garden stop playing with your dolls and don’t be afraid of worms justburrowburrowinthegardenandthen

I can’t breathe.

I didn’t try and tell my uncle as he knows to burrowburrow in the garden right by the summerhouse I told him to tell the others he justcoveredhisheadandshouted “go away go away” and I won’t I want him to tell so I’m not inbetween go and burrowburrow in the garden but he still cries and drinks and eats tablets by the handful please before you go write a message to burrowburrow in the garden Uncle please tell them to burrow with shiny spades and forks justlikeyouoncedid

I can’t breathe.

I tried to tell My mother she should burrow in the garden but she can’t hear me and her garden is so beautiful burrowburrow in the garden mother even though it’s where youpouredyourtears and the flowers are so pretty please burrow in the garden but she just goes on crying so I shout as loud as I can shoutingshoutingburrowburrowinthegarden.

I can’t breathe.

Write what you know.

I am not, by any stretch, the type of person who writes autobiographical details into my main characters apart from a couple of small cosmetic nods. But I wrote this sentence and didn't realise until afterwards that it neatly sums up my attitude to being ill.

'...and, buying a larger hat to cover the nascent horns apart, I had coped with this new complication in my life by ignoring it.'

The bit about ignoring it. Not the horns. Wanting horns would be stupid. I want antlers.

Sin crow nice city.

This weekend I spent quite a bit of time daydreaming and making notes about how ice Cream vans work in the thing I am messing with. Then on R4 there was a whole programme about Ice Cream vans which was nice and served to add some little details. Did you know that their chimes are tuned with small paper feathers and the sound horn is underneath the van so the sound bounces off the road? No? I didn't either.

Anyway, messing about with voices. Think this works. Think so. Maybe. Might not. health is a bit rubbish at the moment so it's a bit like writing through treacle.


'It's,' he spits out through gritted teeth, 'been dealt with.'
I smile at him and out my notebook and pen.
'If you could just give me the details of how it was dealt with then, Mr?'
Piggy eyes cloud over with confusion, caught between the wish to boast and the natural instinct not to get arrested.
'B. N. P!' he shouts.
I take a step back to escape the fragrant cloud of his body odour. He raises his arms and starts to chant.
'We are the BNP! We are the BNP!' he punches the air in time to his chant.
'Excuse me.'
'We are the BNP!'
'Excuse me, sir, but you're not.'
'We are the...what?'
'As you're on your own and, I presume, not royal then, 'you are the BNP' is more correct in this instance.'
He narrows his eyes before re-starting his chant.
'You are the BNP! You are the BNP!'
I shake my head and he falters to a stop.
'No, sir. I am not. What you mean is, 'I am the BNP.'
He reaches out and offers his hand.
'Good on you, Copper.'
I give him a hard stare.
'Is there anyone else here I can talk with?'