Crawlers -Free Short Story


I’ve decided to repost this as I will shortly remove this story as available for free.  During this ghastly pandemic lockdown, if you’re looking for a short read and would like to sample my work, you can get Crawlers either via the Wattpad App, which is totally free to download for mobile devices, tablets/e-readers from the Google Play or Apple Store or you can simply take the story as a PDF, which is included in the link below.

Crawlers was initially accepted for an Anthology which was sadly cancelled due to the publisher closing down.  It will appear again in the line-up of a new short story collection I am currently working on.

0_Mum-living-on-10th-floor-of-tower-block-labels-it-hell-hole-and-worst-council-flat-in-Birmingham (2)I imagined Crawlers in the spirit of an episode of the The Twilight Zone, which along with The Outer Limits, was one of my favourite series, as a kid.  

I actually first got the idea for the story after I came across this picture of a run-down, grubby looking social housing high-rise block of flats I saw online in UK.  As I have a pre-occupation with horror in every-day urban settings, I began to think of what might be lurking in those lost, forgotten sub-basements of these buildings, the ones with rooms full of rusty old pipes that smell of damp and sulphur.  The rooms nobody goes to.

So feel free to help yourself to this story.  It’s free.

Stay safe and well in these strange times, folks.


Copy of Crawlers (1)





2020 – No Retreat, No Surrender


2019 was very much a year of transition.  Wait, let me clarify that.  I’m perfectly content with my sexuality, I didn’t mean…oh, never mind!

Recovering from serious health issues is no picnic and sometimes, it takes as long as it takes.  Three steps forward, two steps back, good days, bad days, days you don’t know how you feel and all that jazz.  But over the course of the second half of 2019, something..changed.  I can’t really articulate accurately what that was/is, nor why or how.  There was no singular event that precipitated it, no great spiritual awakening or cathartic moment of clarity.  I guess it just happened without me thinking about it.  And that is probably a good thing.  If I’d stopped to think about it, I most likely would have fucked it up.

I just felt better and the knock-on effect was that I started writing properly again, as well as rising from the smelly bog of eternal stench that was the aftermath of things that gone cataclysmically wrong in my personal life and had spent two years recovering from.  I had made a lot of progress, of course and I am massively grateful for that, but like the proverbial pig, I had become somewhat comfortable to lie in my own filth and enjoy being comfortable and just not be a depressed person.

We’re all sick of fucking memes, but sometimes they’re true.  “Your Comfort Zone is a nice place, but nothing ever grows there” being one of them.  And sticking with our Pig analogy, I slowly was hoisted out of the bog of eternal stench by whatever it was that elevated me, to a background of gurgly, farty sounds.  I was dirty and covered in shit, but there I was, in full view of the random voyeurs who had assembled at our metaphorical pond, to see me in all my glory, in suspended animation ten feet above the murky slime, just grinning at them in a nonchalant, borderline threatening manner.  But the important thing, was, I was out.

So I started to write.  I went back to my novella The Locked Room, which I have been working on for the past 2-3 years, periodically.  I finished the second draft and now currently polishing the re-writes.  I also started working on a ten-tale short story collection book, my second one since Urban Chiller in 2015.  With the working title “Dysfunctional“, it is a collection of sci-fi, and weird fiction which I am quietly excited about, although it is hard work.

I can see the changes in my writing and I feel I am a much improved author, although I do still have affection for my earlier works.  My ideas keep coming, many of them feel they have the legs to become stories, and I’m not going to ignore this purple patch of creativity.  I’m going to get this shit done.

So 2020 is going to be the year.  It’s going to be the year I make big changes to my life in other ways, too I plan to leave Sweden and move away for a fresh start, step up and stop making excuses as to why I can’t in life.  I can and I will.  Sometimes you have to.   2020 is going to be they year I step up and get the two writing projects of The Locked Room and Dysfunctional done.  And do all the other things.  No if’s, no buts, and above all, no excuses.

No Retreat, No Surrender.

Do not refer to me as the Comeback Kid.  That would be disingenuous.  2020 is to be the year of the Pig.  The Mackem Pig.

I am the Comeback Pig.





Last Round


A little piece of Flash Fiction I wrote recently which I’m releasing here.  It’s called Last Round.

The din in the background is almost ear-splitting, the flashing of lights and disorientation feels worse than usual.  Earlier in the fight, I could even make out individual voices in the crowd, closer to the ring, all giving their own, expert opinions to each other on everything I’m doing wrong. Now it’s just a din, a haze of shrill ringing, flashing lights and noise that screams relentlessly inside my head.  

I don’t remember what round it was when I went down.  I think it was the 5th. He’d feigned a left jab, then came over the top with a chopping right that caught me flush on the temple. The chopping right hand that Ray; my trainer, had been warning me about and prepared me for, all camp. They say the punches that hurt the most are the ones you don’t see coming.  Fucking too right. When that right went in, I didn’t get that split half-second to tense up, bite down hard on the gum shield, harden up my jaw, let my body fill with more adrenalin, and brace for impact. My legs buckled and I went down, the canvas hard and cold. Luckily, my head cleared fast and I took an 8 count before the bell saved me ten seconds later. 

Ray is talking to me up close, I can smell the putrid odor of his chewing gum as it hits my nostrils, why is my sense of smell so acute when everything else is broken up and battered?  I can see his lips moving, but there’s no sound, I only catch odd words in his sentences, but I hear him say it’s the final round and only three more minutes to go. He’s telling me to stay away from him, to box at distance, dig deep, not to trade and I’ll win the fight.  That must mean I’m ahead. 

Last round. Just one more round.  

I raise my head, squinting with the swelling around my eyes and look across at my opponent.  He looks how I feel, and for a fleeting moment, I think I’m looking directly into a mirror. I’ve boxed and beaten this man, mercilessly all night and hit him with absolutely everything I’ve got.  And he kept coming after me. Whatever happens in the next three minutes, I know this man will stalk me in my dreams tonight.

Everything hurts; pain beyond pain, my ribs and stomach muscles locked into tight spasm from the onslaught.  Blood trickles from the stinging cuts above my eyes I see the claret on the sponge and swabs Ray throws into the plastic bucket by my stool.  Then, the sensation of cool water on my head and it runs down onto my burning shoulders. I can even make out pockets of steam rising from my skin.  I want my wife, who isn’t here and never comes to my fights. I just want to collapse into her arms, have her hold me close to her chest and feel her fingers cradled around my head, away from this pain.   

I hear the seconds-out alarm, the ring begins to empty and I rise slowly from my stool, leaving just him and me staring at each other. Just him and me. Two warriors. Both given everything, both taken everything and now it’s down to sheer will. It’s not about the belt anymore, and not about the money.  As we lock eyes, I know he’s thinking the same and, like me, he’ll just not give in.  Never.  At the center of the ring, the referee with blood on his shirt says something I can’t make out and we touch gloves.  

Last round. Just one more round.


Free Short Story “Crawlers”

___Haunted_Hallway____by_Hikari151Crawlers is a short tale I wrote in 2017 and it was accepted for an anthology for publication.  Sadly, the publisher then closed down and the anthology was abandoned.

It’s had a little dusting off and polish and I’ve decided to upload it to Wattpad where it will be available for a short time.  (Now Expired)

//Jonathan Wood

The Locked Room, Lost Notes and Forgotten posts.

It seems like I’ve been banging on about “upcoming” new works since 2016 and here I am…still banging on about upcoming works.  Over the last weeks and month, I’ve began the laborious task of going through files on my external drive stick I had somewhat of a mental block going near, let alone picking up the work and take it forward.  That was hurdle Number One cleared and it wasn’t nearly as horrible as I thought it would be.  It rarely is, I guess.

My immediate project is my upcoming..(there I go again!) novella The Locked Room, which is a project I’ve spent the best part of two years on and

pt2it will be the first release of Strange Days Press (SDP), which is my own and new publishing label.  SDP’s website is currently under some construction changes, it needed some tweaks for ordering services and certain other facilities and the novella itself is also receiving a little polish and TLC in hair and makeup before it moves towards a release date.  I have no firm date for this right now, but it will be early 2019.  So behind the scenes, my minions are slaving away for minimum wage to try and help me make this happen and produce a quality product and a solid platform to launch it from.

Lurking in my notes and ideas, files and musings, I stumbled upon a small piece of flash fiction that I had forgotten about and to be honest, can’t remember writing.  It has popped up on my blog before but here it is again.

That’s it for now, but I’ll be back as matters make progress and I finally move towards announcing the launch venue for The Locked Room, dates and pre-order details for the book.

My humble and eternal thanks as always to those reading and supporting my work.



                                                                    NIGHT OWL

He likes to stay a while.  Not too long, but just enough to take it.  What he wants.  What he covets. What he craves. Watching them sleep from the shadows, his cloak is made of a strange magic and he uses it well.

Locked doors, windows and the bricks and mortar of buildings are mere trivialities to him now and he learned soon after his taking, that they offer little resistance. He is not of this place any more, but the rage from his distant life within it, still burns.  Oh, how it burns.

Sometimes, he just stands over them, watching. Waiting. For the part of the night that smells the sweetest.  He has a special affinity for the young.  The vitality that oozes from their very bones a drug he just cannot consume enough of.  It’s his pleasure. His opiate of choice.

Some of the ones he visits have house pets. They guard their owners sensing his presence in the air and unless he’s careful, they see him.  Especially cats.  Even one or two of them seem to sense him too.  They wake as he’s taking it from them, their eyes wide and terrified, little hands reaching out into the darkness to try and stop what they cannot see, wondering if they are really awake or just dreaming.  Are they dreaming of the black shadow sucking the breath out of them with great greedy gulps as it leans over their bed?

He’s getting stronger.  He can feel it.  Soon, he’ll be able to do more.   He knows he must be patient, but he has time. Time is all he has.  Lately, sensation has slowly began to return to his hands and fingers and it feels like pins and needles. He can almost move objects now when he tries to touch them and it feels good. Very good.   He knows that soon he’ll be able to touch them too and he simply can’t wait for that.

Because he has ideas.  Bad men always have lots of ideas. Even the dead ones.

A short blast from the past


It seems like a hundred years since I released my debut short story collection Urban Chiller, when it was only 2015.  My writing style has evolved and grown to something different now, but I’ll always have a soft spot for some of the tales in it.  Below is a piece of flash fiction from Urban Chiller.


              THE VISITOR



She comes to me in the night as I lie awake in the thick darkness of the room, the changing neon display of my bedside alarm clock the only true sign I have that time has not completely stopped.

I hear the curtains by the window rustle and the now familiar padding of her feet across the carpet. She slips under the sheets effortlessly like she is summer breeze. Her touch is light as she cuddles up to me and I slip my arm under her head and hold her shoulder gently. She feels like porcelain in my fingers. She’s my very own porcelain doll.

The first time she came I was terrified. I yelled out and shrieked as I saw the curtain move. Her shadow appeared inexplicably and seemingly from nowhere from behind the curtain of a window that was locked tight. I fought against her the first time in panic, thinking I was lost somewhere between consciousness and a nightmare, that nether land of confusion and false images, tricks of a broken mind.

That first time she told me in whispers that she meant me no harm; but that she was cold and had been walking a long time. She asked to lay with me in bed and when I began to calm down, I let her in. Although I only ever see her silhouette, she reminds me of Sarah, my Sarah.  I cannot see her features in the dark of the room, but her skin feels just like hers and the scent of her hair is the same, before the cancer that ravaged her body took her away from me.  Forever.

When I first held her close, I asked her if she is Sarah, but she doesn’t answer. She never answers. She just says she is cold and tired.  After a while, I stopped asking. She doesn’t talk much but sometimes she whispers of others, others just like her. Shadows that move around close by, they just choose not to show themselves.  I ask her who they are. She pauses and says she doesn’t know. She just calls them the bright ones and says they are looking for her and that they offer her light and shelter if only she’ll go with them.

She also says there are…others.  Ones who do not shine; ones with dark in their hearts and they look for her, too.  They promise her things, great things. They promise her anything and everything if only she’ll take their hand and follow.  She seems afraid when she talks about them, I can hear her fear. It’s hidden in her whispers.

The house is dark, even in daylight, and each night I go to bed to wait for her, whoever she may be. When I hear that now familiar rustle of the curtains and that padding of her feet across the carpet in the dead of the night, I feel my heart skip over a beat as she slides in between the sheets, and into my arms again.  But she is always cold. So very cold.

One day she will stop coming and I’ll know that she’s chosen her path. I’ll be left alone again, in the dead of the night, without her.  When the silence is too great and the darkness too dark, maybe I too will choose a path.

A path away from the dead of the night.

Jonathan Wood


A very personal blog post…

phoenixmustburn-2It’s difficult to know how to even begin a post like this. I stand before you with everything laid  bare, here and if you choose to bail now and go and do something more fun, I won’t blame you for it, at all. If you are still here and still reading, then I appreciate your time and your company.

To say I have found the last few years of my life turbulent is somewhat of an understatement and the effect on my writing, my health, my life, my everything, has been cataclysmic. Whilst I can’t nor shouldn’t discuss in specifics the breakdown of my marriage in a public forum; I don’t suppose it is a matter of public interest in any event, particularly in this saturated age of social media white noise and oversharing.  So that part is largely irrelevant here.

I don’t expect nor feel entitled to anyone’s sympathy or empathy, either. I have no agenda to be self indulgent, seek attention, gaslight or throw mud.  My hope here, is to at least try and talk about my own experience and break down some of the taboo I’ve often found the subject of mental health shrouded in, particularly in men, and reach out to whoever may read these words and might be suffering themselves. To tell you that you are not alone. Really, you are not alone. And you don’t have to suffer in silence.

Especially you tough guys who pretend you’re ok when you know you’re not. I’ll let you into a secret that isn’t so secret. Depression doesn’t discriminate and leave tough people alone.  Sorry. And it’s ok to admit you’re not ok. In fact, let’s start a little club here and make some rules.

The first rule of Depression Club is…. you have to talk about it!

Once upon a time, I was hoping to be a writer.  But somewhere along the long and winding road, I strayed from the path and was lost. I don’t even remember when it happened or how, anymore.

Sometimes relationships end, that’s just a fact of life and those that have experienced the emotional impact of a failed relationship, a divorce or separation will no doubt identify with some of the things I say here. It’s not to say that my experience is any more or less poignant or more or less painful than anyone else’s. Heartbreak is relative and exactly what it says on the tin. And it tastes like shit.  

My marriage ended in February this year, a marriage I gave everything to, and I mean everything that I had to give, in every way. I gave too much and ended up getting seriously hurt. The relationship itself had come off the back of a difficult time for me and I was a little vulnerable when the relationship first chipped up, unexpectedly. But what had seemed like a whirlwind fairy tale to me, my friends and family held a very dark flipside to it’s coin. One I didn’t see until it was too late. It’s not to say that the other party in this sorry veil of tears was totally to blame, either. She wasn’t. For a whole variety of reasons.

I ignored several red flags early on which could have mitigated my situation. My ego began to write cheques my body couldn’t cash. I thought I could handle everything, fix everything, but I couldn’t and never could.  But, in some effort of mitigation, aren’t we all fucking Yoda after the event and blessed with the 20/20 hindsight lens?

And “love”, or what we sometimes think is love, has made idiots out of much smarter people than me, too.  That’s worth noting.

When my marriage ended, I could sense there was something..else. Something was badly wrong inside me. In addition to a broken heart and feelings of anger and hurt, something more insidious was there and had been brewing for a while. My erratic behavior and instability had more gravitas attached to it than previous; and to be fair, short flirtations I had had with depression over the years. I felt like I was on the cusp of something much more profound than just going through “a breakup”. I was emotionally bankrupt, physically exhausted and broken.  My self-esteem and confidence were utterly shattered. I was consumed by hate. For my ex-wife, for myself. For everything. I couldn’t sit still for longer than five minutes. I wanted to claw out my own eyeballs, I wanted to scream and cry, I wanted to lie in bed motionless and mute forever.

I didn’t know what the hell I wanted to do.   

People seem to have different thresholds for depression. Rather like alcoholism, I’ve noticed some are “high functioning” depressives, people deeply unhappy and depressed, yet able to somehow soldier on, perform in their careers, grit their teeth and take care of their kids and spouses(aided by medication in some cases/sometimes not) in so far as their depression allows them to do it. They can manage this facade for years, sometimes.  In some ways, I admire people who can do that, and that’s not to play down or make light of how they must feel.

I learned exactly where my threshold was.  And it was nowhere near the above.

The term nervous breakdown is quite loose when you consider it, too. There aren’t really any specific parameters about what it entails or off the shelf treatments, either.  Only a few clicks of a button online will take you to various different tomes of the horrific effects a breakdown can have on a human being. Sometimes the damage is limited, sometimes it spirals out of control and can lead to ruined lives, incarceration of some kind or even suicide.  

Yes Mr Wood “Just take three spoonfuls of this vile tasting syrup, three times per day, said the pharmacist.  In two weeks, you’ll be as happy as a pig in shit again”

Right?  Wrong.

Nobody can tell you what to expect with a nervous breakdown, what will happen, what to do when it does or how to recover. It’s a buzz word of mental health terminology, but in reality, it’s just two words put together that don’t really tell you much, at all.  It’s everything and nothing.

I’d heard the term before and it had always terrified me. I envisaged the prospect of having a nervous breakdown as me sitting in a padded room in a psychiatric ward somewhere in my Spiderman pyjamas, talking to Wally the giant Bunny Rabbit who lives behind the radiator.

It didn’t quite come to that in my case, but for a while, my brain just seemed to say “enough” and shut down almost completely.  I later learned this was a kind of safety switch. When the mind can’t cope, it sometimes let’s go. Just for a while.

I’m not able to take your call right now, but when you hear the tone, leave your name, number and a short message, and I’ll get back to you”  

I spent several months signed off sick from work, bedridden for the first few weeks, and I mean literally not moving from my bed, other than to use the bathroom. I stopped eating, period and my weight plummeted to 10 stones, which for a guy of my frame, looked horrible.  My healthy weight is 12.5 stones. (80kg) Physically, I looked like I was dying and I couldn’t seem to string thoughts together and think coherently. About anything. I could get upset over nothing. Spilling a glass of water could make me cry for an hour. Uncontrollable shaking, insomnia even though I was exhausted, panic attacks at any time, sweating, fatigue, agoraphobia, upset tummy, constant rumination/anxiety and not showering or taking care of chores at home. I didn’t give a fuck. About anything. I looked like Tom Hanks in Castaway, after a Butlins holiday…in Pripyat.  

When my Doctor asked me if I had felt like hurting myself or thoughts of taking my own life I was honest and said no, but I worried that these feelings might come as I seemingly had no control over what was happening to me on a daily basis. (I had had one depressive episode some years ago where I did contemplate suicide).

It was like a thick black and toxic fog had descended upon me and I just wanted to breathe it all in and let it consume me. I saw no way out and had no energy for the fight, even if I did.  There are some weeks I can’t even recall so can’t really document those times.

Luckily, a small group of people part of my inner circle stepped in and although it took a few tries to get the medication part correct, as time passed, I found a certain type of anti depressant to be effective, with minimal side effects. There’s a lot of stigma and negativity surrounding medication, but it’s worth remembering that many people DO get efficacy from some antidepressants.  I was one of those. And no, I wasn’t doped to Timbuktu on Thorazine either.

After a month of adjustment, I was able to function very well and even begin going back to work albeit on reduced hours. I also found a good therapist who was expensive, but she helped me to practically start to unravel what emotionally was going on inside me and begin the process of healing/recovery. I learned that I had no control over bad thoughts or the times when the black dog would come scratching at the door, trying to get in.  But I can control how I react to the triggers. And for me, that was key. They are after all, just bad thoughts.   

In my experience, I got lucky.  I had loyal people looking out for me who stuck by me, even when I was behaving like an arsehole, and being awkward/resistant and draining with people who just had my best interests at heart and couldn’t bear to see me in the state I was in.  A very close friend almost had me sectioned on account of my weight loss and general demeanor.

Thankfully, my friends realized it was the breakdown making me this way and they didn’t give up on me. My employer was also fantastic and supportive.  My Line Manager and Head of Division were very kind and empathetic towards me. I was told to not worry about work, take as much sick time as I needed and to get well. Not everyone gets such fantastic support as I did. I also got very good and constructive medical care. People I have never met personally, or met just fleetingly, but I’m connected with on social media got in touch and offered me their hand and support. One of the great sides of social media…for all its ills.  

Gradually, with a combination of medication, therapy and support, I was able to pull myself up off the seabed. One inch at a time.  

Six months on and the world feels like a different place.  I have a re-calibrated sense of self and feel genuinely more optimistic about the future.  I’m not over the hurt or damage of my marriage and divorce, I’m in transit though, and started to learn again about what is important to me, and have a readjusted sense of value and priority. My marriage taught me a great deal.

I have not so good days of course, still and probably always will.  But they are decreasing and I wake each morning now with a much better sense of optimism and hope.  That had gotten lost somewhere, and to get it back feels wonderful. Everything just feels different, this time.  And ironically, it took a nervous breakdown which somehow, with guidance, I was able to turn into a breakthrough. It came at huge cost.  But sometimes, there can be no real true restitution without cost.

I guess the point of a warts and all blog post is two fold. The first is an act of honesty on my part to lay out in a public forum my own experiences with mental health issues, which has taken some courage to do. The second is to offer some beacon of light to anyone in the midst of anything like what I have described, here.  I’m not giving you soundbite bs when I say I understand what you are going through. I sometimes wish I didn’t… but I do.  What you don’t have access to right now in the depths of your hopelessness, is that you are not hopeless. You have a choice. You always have a choice.  

I’m not some kind of relationship guru, mental health svengali or self-certified psychiatrist now either just because I lost my shit for a while and had some kind of twisted Trinny and Susannah esque makeover to a homeless tramp for three months. The solution to your recovery from a breakdown is made up of different; sometimes complex sometimes not, variables.  There is no off the rack one treatment fits all fix for this thing. You need to admit you’re not well and need help, that’s step number one and be brave enough to reach out for it. That’s your starting point. And admitting you’re not coping does not make you weak. Ironically, it’s a sign of the opposite.

There will be days you feel you’ve made progress, and there will be days you feel like punching yourself repeatedly in the face when you break down in front of a therapist for one hour once, maybe twice per week and feel worse when you came out than when you went in. And that’s before you get the invoice!   Stick with it and invest in the process. Be totally honest with your therapist and chew the really chewy fat.  You know, the shit you want to talk about but just…can’t.  Your therapist might be very experienced and skilled, but they are not psychic. And if you can’t be honest and open with yourself, how can you truly expect any catharsis of your situation or to really, truly get better?

Find the right help, a GP prepared to look at your care short and long term if you are diagnosed with depression. If you feel your GP is not interested, find another who is.  Look for a therapist you feel comfortable working with, be patient and give them time to learn about you, what you’re going through, and what triggers your situation. If you are lucky enough to have good friends in it for the long haul, accept the help they offer you and apologize to them later for being a knobjockey, when you see the world through a clearer lens.  If they are true friends, they will forgive you your trespasses, I promise you.  You may have to do the same for them one day.  Be prepared to make changes to your life/routine and take on new hobbies, exercise, whatever makes you feel better. Go punch a goat. No, don’t do that. The goat might punch you back.

Recovering from a nervous breakdown takes time, courage, work and patience.  

Yes, you must walk this road yourself but you are not alone. There are people behind you who’ve got your back if you fall over and land flat on your face. They can help you up, dust you down and mop up your tears. But you MUST walk for yourself.  Remember, you have a choice. You always have a choice.

Once upon a time I was hoping to be a writer.  But somewhere, on the long and winding road, I strayed and was lost. After some time in the wilds, I see the lights of the path again, up ahead. They are close.  

If I can find them, so can you.

Jonathan Wood

Free Flash Fiction



Jonathan Wood

Burning,​ ​snaking,​ ​wrapping​ ​it’s​ ​greasy​ ​talons​ ​around​ ​me​ ​for​ ​fun,​ ​flexing​ ​those​ ​long​ ​dirty​ ​nails with​ ​the​ ​smell​ ​of​ ​past​ ​misdemeanors​ ​still​ ​pungent​ ​on​ ​it’s​ ​scaly​ ​skin. It’s​ ​relentless,​ ​swapping​ ​it’s​ ​grasp​ ​from​ ​my​ ​chest​ ​to​ ​my​ ​throat,​ ​threatening​ ​to​ ​choke​ ​and crush​ ​when​ ​it​ ​feels​ ​like​ ​it,​ ​chuckling​ ​at​ ​it’s​ ​very​ ​own​ ​power​ ​to​ ​see​ ​my​ ​struggle​ ​for​ ​breath.​ ​​ ​My 

eyes​ ​bulge​ ​and​ ​swell.​ ​​ ​It​ ​wafts​ ​me​ ​with​ ​it’s​ ​poisonous​ ​black​ ​fumes,​ ​promising​ ​that​ ​this​ ​is​ ​just the​ ​beginning.​ ​​ ​The​ ​beginning​ ​of​ ​the​ ​games.

Sometimes,​ ​it​ ​shows​ ​me​ ​the​ ​video​ ​reel,​ ​playing​ ​back​ ​the​ ​grainy​ ​images​ ​to​ ​me​ ​on​ ​an​ ​old​ ​rusty 8mm​ ​tape​ ​machine.​ ​​ ​Start.​ ​​Click.​ ​Stop.​ ​​Click.​​ ​Rewind.​ ​​Click.​​ ​Repeat.​ ​​ ​The​ ​images​ ​on​ ​the tape​ ​show​ ​what​ ​I​ ​did,​ ​how​ ​I​ ​failed;​ ​and​ ​cruelly…how​ ​it​ ​would​ ​and​ ​should​ ​have​ ​been.  

It​ ​says​ ​it’s​ ​my​ ​fault​ ​and​ ​I​ ​can’t​ ​argue​ ​back.
It​ ​says​ ​it’s​ ​here​ ​to​ ​stay​ ​with​ ​me,​ ​for​ ​a​ ​while;​ ​that​ ​I​ ​have​ ​a​ ​front​ ​row​ ​seat,​ ​“​best in the house” for​ ​the​ ​show​ ​that​ ​will​ ​follow.​ ​The​ ​show​ ​where​ ​the​ ​scar​ ​tissue​ ​gets​ ​prodded​ ​and​ ​pressed​ ​until it​ ​glows​ ​angry​ ​and​ ​smarts​ ​tears​ ​of​ ​red.​ ​The​ ​show​ ​runs​ ​on​ ​repeat​ ​and​ ​I​ ​can’t​ ​close​ ​my​ ​eyes.
It​ ​whispers​ ​in​ ​my​ ​ear​ ​and​ ​nuzzles​ ​my​ ​neck​ ​in​ ​front​ ​of​ ​the​ ​cracked​ ​mirror​ ​it​ ​holds​ ​up​ ​to​ ​my pitiful​ ​reflection,​ ​the​ ​shards​ ​of​ ​glass​ ​I​ ​smashed​ ​with​ ​my​ ​fists​ ​in​ ​disgust​ ​returning​ ​my​ ​image like​ ​some​ ​kind​ ​of​ ​grotesque​ ​jigsaw​ ​that​ ​I​ ​just​ ​can’t​ ​bear​ ​the​ ​site​ ​of.​ ​I​ ​look​ ​like​ ​a​ ​circus​ ​act freak​ ​and​ ​it​ ​won’t​ ​let​ ​me​ ​look​ ​away.
It’s​ ​promised​ ​me​ ​I​ ​won’t​ ​sleep,​ ​and​ ​when​ ​I​ ​finally​ ​do,​ ​I​ ​will​ ​dream.​ ​​ ​Dream​ ​of​ ​terrible​ ​things, things​ ​that​ ​I​ ​cannot​ ​run​ ​or​ ​escape​ ​from,​ ​with​ ​my​ ​eyes​ ​open​ ​or​ ​fastened​ ​shut.
The​ ​signpost​ ​in​ ​the​ ​corner​ ​of​ ​my​ ​dreamscape​ ​points​ ​only​ ​one​ ​way.
Welcome​ ​to​ ​the​ ​desert…​ ​of​ ​my​ ​personal​ ​inferno.

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Update on forthcoming works

It’s been a long time since I checked in and updated my blog and that’s been for a number of reasons, but I can now offer some news on my upcoming works, particularly the release of my novella The Locked Room, which has been long in production.

The final cut of the novella is now complete and, as those who follow my work will know, will be the first release under my own publishing label Strange Days Press, which I founded last year.  Strange Days Press has it’s own website and details will be released via the site of the release date for The Locked Room, along with pricing and ordering information as soon as I know more.  But I’m aiming for the 8th November 2017 as the official release date.


I will, in the coming months, be working with the artist commissioned for the cover and formatting processes and there will be a Limited Edition hardback version of the book, along with paperback and kindle versions.

I am steadily working on a number of other projects right now, including a number of short stories, one of which I have set out in the Swedish countryside of Tångeråsa, where my wife is from.  It has the working title “Ferox Aper”  (Wild Boar in Latin) and I hope will offer something a little different and a nice mix of black comedy, a few scares and some sideways analogies of a silly Englishman from the city who finds himself caught up in the event of a mythical giant Hog on the loose in the Swedish wilds!


That’s it for now and I’ll post more details here in the coming months as The Locked Room gets closer to it’s publication schedule.

A big thanks to those reading, following and supporting my work, it’s truly appreciated.

Have a great summer