Monday, May 28, 2007


I've written a short story called Abandon and I'm going to submit it to a short story competition in the UK. It's the best short story I've written and I'd love to put it on this site but cannot. Short Stories submitted to competitions cannot be published elsewhere including on Websites. :(

Monday, May 21, 2007


Hi, I was testing the comments fascility and it seems that I cannot delete comments once they are put forward. I've changed it so that I have to approve comments before publication.
I've also taken the comments function of the Stories themselves to make it seem neater. Please leave comments on the introduction to the story.

Thursday, May 17, 2007


Molecat Jumaway

There’s a saying from the town where I come from, “If you ain’t thinking about it then it ain’t worth thinking about.” You can tell right there and then that I had a happy childhood. Reckless, unadulterated and unsupervised. As a child there was only one rule, don’t leave town and you’ll be fine. For some strange reason that I still cannot clearly fathom every single member of our town had red, curly hair. It might as well been called Carrot Top County but it weren’t. You left town as a kid and the surrounding districts would spot you a mile away. They kept their eyes out, called us Strays and brought us back. They did not even bother asking where we came from, who were our mum and dad? They just dumped us in the middle of town and headed right back out. Right up past eighteen you’d have to make a dash for it or be hauled back and dropped unceremoniously back in the dead centre of town. People stopped leaving after a while and the orange curls just kept multiplying.
I got out though, one of the few to escape. I tell myself that it was my brains and skill that let me penetrate the borders and move into the wide-open world. Truth be known it was more probably dumb luck, it was cold out and I wore a hat. I took nothing with me except the clothes I was wearing, my orange curls and that stupid saying,
“If you ain’t thinking about it then it ain’t worth thinking about.”
Years later and I feel that I’ve made it in the outside world. Our town’s main export was live chickens so I immediately got a job on one of those fancy food preparation lines. We gut and prepare chickens to go into those burgers you eat in chain restaurants. My breasts are seen all over the country, I can travel anywhere, buy a chicken burger and know that there is some chance that I prepared the chicken. Sometimes I feel a sense of pride in my job when I bite down and find a red curly hair.
You could imagine how I live. It ain’t worth thinking about kind of rules the roost. Food is bought when hunger hits. Bills were only paid when the service is switched off, that soon stopped as I was starting to have trouble getting the electricity switched back on. Now they withdraw it themselves from my account. I don’t have to do or remember a thing, ain’t technology wonderful. I only think to buy toilet paper until I’m sitting there staring at an empty roll. Trick that I learnt back home was to wear yesterday’s underwear when going down to the store to buy toilet paper. You could always tell where someone was heading by the way they walked. When I can think about it I write home sending a few dollars in the mail. I get homesick quite a lot so this happens weekly. They got red hair here, they got orange hair here and they got curly hair here but it ain’t the same.
Well it was one of those days mentioned previously. I took a deep sigh and waddled into the bedroom to find yesterdays underwear. I realised that I was wearing them already so had to think hard to whether it counted or whether I should go for the day previous.
Now I get distracted easily, I’m walking down the busy street awkwardly. I’m thinking that everyone knows where I’m going and where I’ve been and I’m getting homesick again. I stop into the post office and buy an envelope. I’m enjoying myself, my independent lifestyle but there’s something missing. I was wondering whether I would give it all up, all the wonders of modern society to go back home. I was staring down at the envelope; it had a stamp already printed on it. I was thinking about all the things that I had found out, just like that. Could I give it all up? If I just went to visit my family, would I be stuck there again? I was walking down the street, staring at the envelope and looking around. There were so many wonders here but the people had a coldness about them. I missed the warmth of my old town, no one knew my name here, and no one cared. No one cared that envelopes came with stamps or that bills could pay themselves.
I went to drown my sorrows in a donut, this wasn’t the first time that I’d felt homesick like this and the donut always helped or maybe it was the sugar. I sat there staring at the pink icing and thinking about being at home. I was not home here; I was like an endless tourist. I was constantly going from one thing to the next with my mouth hanging open, I was still only on vacation. Unless I was back where I belonged I would always be a stray. I took a bite of the donut and something magical happened, something that changed everything. Something got caught between my teeth and I absently pulled it out. Suddenly I’m staring at a sign from above between my fingers, a red curly hair.
It had to be fate; there was no other word for it. The early morning waitress is suddenly taken back with my sudden change in emotion. With exhilaration I’m asking where the donuts come from. She warily brings me the box that they had come in. I read the address and off I go, into the street. An hour later I’m standing outside the factory, breathing heavily. I start to walk through the gates.
“Whoa hold it there sonny.” There was a guard suddenly in front of me with his hand out. There’s a pause as he studies me. “Hey you’re that girl’s brother?”
I’m dumbfounded; I don’t know what to say. I just stand there.
“Yeah you’re her brother alright.” He says with a knowing nod. “Look she’ll be out in a second, shift finishes about now.”
Off in the distance a door opens and people start to pile out. I’m searching the small crowd restlessly, not even knowing who I’m looking for. Then I see the hair.
She’s standing there staring at me, staring at her. We’re both dumbfounded and paralysed with disbelief. We both take an awkward step forward at the same time. Suddenly we’re running towards each other. Suddenly we’re holding each other, suddenly we’re making out like a couple of ten year olds. I’m nervous and break it off as the guard is looking at us funny. We end up just standing there, holding hands and letting them swing while our eyes stared into each other’s.
We’re back at her place. Small just like mine, filled with new gadgets, just like mine only in pink. We’re filled with intension and lust. She takes off my shirt, I unbutton hers.
Suddenly I remembered the toilet paper and I’m blushing, taking a step back. I look at her with words that are too embarrassing to speak out. I excuse myself and head to her bathroom, the toilet roll hangs there empty. When I come back she’s blushing and I realise that I’ve come home.

Strays - Introduction

This was just something small that I whipped up. Trying to keep the language as basic as possible is nearly impossible for me as is the reluctance to not remove all those Ain't s. It probably still needs a lot of work as I only gave it a quick proof read. I think I still need to dumb it down a bit.
But hey, something odd. It's a rare occurrence that no one dies.

P.S. Please don't think I'm picking on red heads.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Ebay feedback

Was shown this link on another site.
ebay feedback!!
It's more than just funny, it's an urban artpiece.

Sunday, May 13, 2007


Aaaarggghh. If you're looking at these things within a work environment be careful not to click on some of Grebo's links.

Reading Bitchy Jones

Okay, I should not have started looking through Grebo's posts. Now I'm reading what he's reading including this.

I'm actually quite taken back by it, it's extremely well written and I don't care what you think of me!! (Now I know how Grebo feels.)

Bloody Links

Okay I think I sorted out, I dumped the choice of using a links element and went straight for a little HTML box. I even tried to mess around with the template's HTML so that I could still use a simple links element but no.
Forgot to put the breaks in so all the link names are next to eachother. Was going to change it but decided I liked it.
So now the links open in a seperate window so that this window stays open.
Man I got to become less boring!

Grebo and Other Blogs and Stuff

I just found a crazy Blog by an old friend, Grebo.
His page won't allow comments so I'm going to think really hard until he got the message.
I then realised that I should have some kind of link list so I can add it in with other links that I can add. I know, I know It's a slow bloody day!!
I'm wondering what the html code is so that it opens in another page. I can't have you people leaving my page, not now, not ever!!

Thursday, May 10, 2007


A couple of days ago I wrote a short story and finished it. Did not really like it though. I called it lack lustre. In my opinion it really lived up to its name. I remember finishing the last sentence with a "I'm not impressed" look on my face. It's okay I guess, in comparison to the two previous it's nothing.
I'm getting back into my novels now. I'm writing a huge novel that'll end up being 120 thousand words long. It's called The Tides Of Karni Mata. I remember starting in and getting through the first bit and then looking at the word count and thinking that I was at the count of where I'm usually half way through but I had just really only begun. I guess that's how it works though. I guess I'll have to wait for another short story to come to me to post it on here. So now I'm trying to decided whether I put the okay or even bad stories up on this? Whether I put older stories from a decade ago up here? I was even wondering whether I should put excerpts of my novels up?
On the right I've added a picture of Shio my cat. He is really my best friend when it comes to it. He spends the most time with me, he's like a fuzzy extension of my own being. He's a very demanding cat though and he hates my writing. It means less attention for him. When he sees me walking off to the study he tries to tackle me and bite the tendons behind my knees. I love cats that way, cute and cuddly with just enough of the wild still lurking behind it all. He does not want me sitting behind the computer all night so his first instinct is to cripple me. He's demanded that he has his own webspace so I put up for him. People are always emailing him through it and all he can do is put meowmeow in his replies.
The photo is of him trying to eat the camera.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007


Just thought I'd post a picture of one of my old typewriters. I actually used to use this one until common sense prevailed.
Imagine typing and typing and typing a story out and then having to copy it all out on the computer, then to go through the editing process. I used to have to maintain it, the ribbon used to jam up, guests would come over and pound the keys.
I also loved the feel of it though. I think this one was made in 1908. Next year it will be an official antique.
If it wasn't for the size that old typewriters took up, I think I would collect them.
I think the thing that eventually persuaded me to write straight onto the computer was that I was having a harder and hard time finding replacement ribbons.Someone should make keyboards for computers with large, turn of the century keys and levers. I'd buy one (if it did not look too poxy.)

The Jaga and The Kaax

The Jaga and The Kaax
Molecat Jumaway

Boxed in by woodlands there is a field, there is no road to the field and no man to tend it. The field grows rich and ripe of corn never to be touched by man.
A figure stands at the edge of the woodlands, absurdly solid. A statue, Regal and honoured like a king. It’s eyes look over the golden field. Animals gather at its feet but nothing flies overhead. Animals of all types, cats and dogs, foxes, rabbits and deer gather at his feet. When a new litter is borne the parents will bring their young to the statue.
There is homage, there is respect, there is love. Nothing flies overhead, nothing dares.

Robert grew corn, Robert gathered the corn and took it to town once a week to barter for other food and goods. It was his livelihood, it was his everything. Robert knew about nothing else until the crows came.
They started coming one at a time and as infrequently as airborne seeds. Flapping and gliding in the wind towards his luscious bounty. A single bird would glide down from the sky and perch in the corn. A peck here, a peck there. A taste of Rob’s livelihood here a bit there. Rob would come out of his small cottage and chase it off. Each time he chased a bird away, two came back.
At first it was irksome, an irritation to Robert and his livelihood. Soon though, two upon two, upon two became a deluge that threatened him with ruin and starvation. If he had not scared the first bird off would he only have one bird eating out there?
He would run, rant and rave but for every one that he scared away, two would come back. For every two that he would dismiss, four would return.
Robert bought a dog.
Robert had never owned a creature before, Robert had never cared for a creature before. He lived alone in the woods with his corn and with his small cottage. He did not own a horse but walked when venturing into town. He was his own beast of burden, carrying his own load. Occasionally a woodsman or a townsman would stop and give him a lift, which he thankfully accepted. Robert never thought to go to the front and pat the horse. Never thought to look into its eyes. For in reality it was the horse that was giving him a lift not the human.
Robert picked up the dog, the largest from a litter. He thanked the family and started to carry it out. The family laughed at him and he stood there at their gate with a puzzled look.
“He can walk on his own, he got all of four legs for that reason.” Said the father.
Robert thought about it and agreed that it was correct. He placed the Dog on the ground and started walking towards home. The dog started walking back towards the family. Again Robert stood there perplexed.
“You have to show him some notice.” Said the Father. “You have only been carrying him around, he knows you not from a carriage.” Robert went up and stood in front of the creature. “Pet its head won’t you?”
The dog looked up at Robert and Robert looked down at the dog. He bent down and gave him a pet on its head. The dog seemed to respond with a smile and a wag.
“Pet him again and talk to it.” Said the Father.
Soon Robert was walking home happily with a dog following on his heals. He would bend down on occasion and pet its head, look into its eyes. The dog and the man had made a connection, for the man it was his first every connection with another living thing.
He called the dog, Dog Larry. You couldn’t simply call him Larry, Larry was a boy’s name. From that moment on it was Robert and Dog Larry. They walked together, Dog Larry slept on the end of his bed. When Robert ate Dog Larry ate next to him.
Dog Larry tried, he ran through the fields barking at the crows. Some fled but twice returned. Some swooped on Dog Larry and pecked at him. Dog Larry kept trying. Soon Robert had to run out and save Dog Larry. Carrying him back to the cottage like he had the first day he had carried him to the gate. Pecked, scratched bruised and punctured. Robert blamed himself, he cried as he ran back to the cottage, away from the birds.
Dog Larry was a good dog. Robert nursed him back to health, cleaning his wounds and Dog Larry wacked its tail against the ground with gratification. He limped around the house and barked at the door, wanting to return to his new job. Robert would not let him out though. He did not want to loose his new dear friend.
Robert needed more dogs.
Robert went back to the family and explained the situation. His head down low and ashamed that he had hurt the dog. The family, who had previously thought he was a slow-witted individual, felt their hearts break with distress for Robert’s love for his new friend. The Father introduced him to three new dogs, two females and a male. The family watched him sit on the floor amongst the three. He petted them and talked to them and asked them what their names would be. The three sat around him, tongues hanging out and tails beating against the floor. He decided on Dog Agnes, Dog Katie and Trevor.
He looked up at the Father. “Is Trevor a person’s name?” The Father slowly nodded.
“Then you will be Dog Trevor.” The dog seemed happy about this and thumped the ground with its tail like a drum.
A thought came to the Father suddenly.
“Do the crows come at night also?” He asked Robert.
“They keep me awake, the jabber and jaw and squawk.”
The father nodded silently and went away. When he came back he was carrying a large basket. Dog Trevor started barking harshly at the basket.
“Naughty Dog Trevor.” Scolded Robert. Dog Trevor soon hushed, his eyes turned to the ground and he made a sorry sound. Robert patted his head. “That’s a good Dog Trevor.” Soon the tail started to wag and the mouth opened in a smile.
The Father stood in the doorway with the basket in his hands watching incredulously. “You certainly do have a way with animals.” Said the Father as he put down the basket. The dogs took a step forward then thought better of it; they would rather sit with their new master.
“I have never seen dogs so quiet with cats in the room.” He said.
“Cats?” Asked Robert, peering over the edge of the basket.
“Yes, Cats. It is not enough to chase the birds away, they will be back, you’ll see. These cats are the killers of night.”
Robert peered into the basket at the four cats who peered back at him.
“They don’t look like killers.” He said.
“These are the dark hunters, they are silent and invisible. By day they sleep, at night they stalk. They will take those creatures by surprise. They wont be coming back once they’re dead.” The Father found this amusing and laughed. Robert bent into the basket and took each cat out one by one. They let him handle them and the dogs made no attempt to snap.
The four cats sat around him with the three dogs, all happy to have their share of attention. He named the cats one by one. Cat Josephine, Cat Cleo, Cat Gary and Cat Joseph. “Cat Cleo.” He said and he picked up the silver cat with black paws. “Say hello to Dog Trevor.” The father watched, shocked at what was going on in front of him and what he thought was going to happen. He watched Robert pick up the cat and put it in front of the dog’s head. He nearly had to close his eyes but was surprised to see the two animals touch noses and become friends.
“Well I have seen it all, you have a way with Animals Mr Robert.”
“Not the crows I don’t.” Answered Robert glumly. He was not thinking of his corn anymore, he was thinking about poor Dog Larry trapped inside and wounded.
“Crows are not creatures called animals.” Said the Father knowingly. “They are the souls of Demons and Witches.”
Robert was driven home that day. The Father was sure that the seven animals would follow Robert down the road but he was starting to like this quiet, slow man. He was glad to give the journey; it was enough reward to see the animals lined up on the back seat with Robert in the middle. Before going back up the path towards the cabin Robert went to the front of the ride. He petted the horse, looked into its eyes and thanked him for the trip. The father watched in awe as the man walked down the tree-lined path with the seven animals following in a single line. His eyes rose a bit and his heart sank as he saw the crows in the sky like dark clouds trying to blot out the sun.

Robert did not want to let the dogs out during the day, he did not want to let the cats out at night. Suddenly he had a thick and furry family. He had never been in the company of anything and now he was surrounded with life. What once was one dog on the end of his bed was now almost an argument on who gets which spot.
The dogs were eager to go their job by day and scratched and whined at the door. Dog Larry was happy with his new family and the company through the fields. They huddled as they ran, eager to scare the birds off, eager to protect one another.
The cats were eager to get out at night, scratching at the windows. They too knew their job and as soon as the window was drawn open the mewing stopped and they slipped out silently. They matched the night, they may be cute in the day but they were truly the night’s terrors. In the morning Robert would open the door to find a stack of crow carcasses piled knee high. They did not eat the birds; they just dragged the trophies to the door and slipped back into the fields for more.
Occasionally the father would turn up with game he found not fit for human consumption. Food for the animals he would say. Truth be known, he liked the man and wanted to see the nine creatures under one roof. Each time he came his eyes would turn nervously to the sky.
“This ain’t right!” He would tell everyone. “It is the Devils doing a tell you. No man is of so pure of heart and is left alone by evil.” The township had muttered of the newfound madness of the father but he was a straight, God-fearing man. All other murmurs were soon quenched when they saw Robert walking with his animals and then there was the black shadow that hung over his house.

One day Robert found Cat Cleo pulling at his pants collar. When she had his attention she started for the door and paused. Robert followed, she would run ahead through the fields and pause waiting for him to catch up. She would sit there, a look of distress and impatience on her face. As soon as Robert came within two meters of her she would bound again through the fields of corn. Robert soon heard a whimper and started to run towards it. The cat chased after him until they got to a small clearing where Dog Larry lay. Dog Larry was still, both cat and dog alike surround him with sounds of distress. A cat would occasionally wander over to the silent body and touch its nose with its own. One of the dogs would occasionally pat it with its paw. All seven creatures wore looks of both confusion and anguish.
Robert never recovered, he would not let the animals out of his sight. No more hunting, no more scaring. The crows could have his corn. The Father came over with another deer and found no one home. Every time he came the sky grew darker than the last visit, the dark crow filled sky scared him but he was more nervous for Robert.
The father soon found the gathering of Robert with his family away from the house. They had just filled the grave of Dog Larry and were standing in silence. Tears flowed down Robert’s cheeks and the animals stood close by trying to comfort him in silence.
When Robert saw the father he looked towards him and tried to clear his eyes and throat.
“You have to take the cats and dogs in to the Cabin, they’ll be safe there.” He said, barely able to sound out the words.
“Where are you going?” Asked the Father.
“I’ll be back soon.” Answered Robert and started walking towards the wood. The animals started to follow and Robert turned to them.
“You cannot come with me.” He said to them as they looked up at him with their anguished eyes. “Go with him, I’ll be back soon.” The animals turned and looked at the father. He could do nothing else but turn back towards the cabin with the animals following him solemnly in single file.
Robert walked for hours through the forest. He had heard the stories and hoped that they would be true. Finally he came to the house, barely noticing it to be a house. He would have missed it if not for noticing two trees with odd shapes. He stood there and stared at their trunks. Their roots, branching off in four different directions, thickly like toes. The roots and trunks reminded him of something and he had to think of what they were, they looked like chicken legs. He soon looked up and found a small cabin perched high on the trunks. A door opened from the floor and an old woman popped her face out.
“Hello young man.” She said, it was The Jaga.
A tied ladder came down in front of Robert. “I’m too old to climb or walk, you are sturdy and strong, you come up here.” Robert obeyed and climbed up to The Jaga’s cabin high in the trees. He told of his plight, of his story, he told of the crows and the loss of his first friend. The Jaga sat and nodded.
The story was over and she motioned to a box with her gnarled, skeleton like finger. A single black claw stood at the end of it and looked to shine with death as she held it out. “Bring me the box.”
Robert obeyed and sat the box on her lap. Slowly she opened it and brought out a stone. The stone was black, but not as a colour more devoid of anything. Dead black. She handed it to him and he took it in his palm, it was cold like the snow. She then took a branch and handed it to him and he received that as well. It held deep mauve flowers on it and the leaves were the darkest of greens.
“When you get back hold the stone tight in your left fist and take a bite of the branch, flowers, leaves and bark. You should be able to watch over your field forever.”
Robert thanked the old lady and asked what she would like in return.
“Your visit is enough.” She said and smiled. “I don’t get out to meet folk like a used to and when I do I am shunned.” Robert made a small bow and started to climb down the ladder. When at the bottom the ladder was raised and the door slammed shut. Robert retraced his steps through the woods back home.
He did not go straight to the cabin as the cabin was being circled by a dense murder of crows. It was so bad now that you could barely see the sky. The warmth of the sun was gone and the sound that they made filled his ears with pain. They wanted his friends and they would not get them. He remembered Dog Larry and was brought back to tears.
He was determined to end this now. He stood on the edge of the field and the woods and grabbed the stone heavily in his left hand. It was cold, not like snow but like death and his arm was numbed by it. With his right hand he brought out the branch and took a bite, leaves, flower and bark. As soon as the three entered his mouth he became ice cold. He tried to move but found he could not. He could not even close his eyes. The numbness from the stone held tightly in his hand climbed up his shoulder and up his throat. The flower, bark and leaves mingled in his mouth and the numbness soon met them.
He could not see his arms, he could not see his jaw, he could not see his nose. He knew he was turning to stone. He knew that his jaw was solid shut, he knew that it was as black as death, he knew that it crept across his face, down his neck and shoulders, his arms and chest. He knew when he was completely stone. He could not drop the rock, he could not spit out the branch. He could still see his field, now decimated from the crows, he could see his little cabin which held his little friends all from stone cold black eyes. All he had left that was not stone was his soul.

The father was keeping watch. The animals were lined up facing the door, waiting for their master to return. He found it both the happiest and saddest thing he had ever seen. He would not open the door because every time he motioned towards it the animals would get excited. He would occasionally go to each window and glance out. He would then go back to the animals and give each of them a comforting pat and go back to the windows. It was keeping him occupied. He was as distressed as the animals but he could not join the line and simply stare at the door.
He glanced out one of the windows and saw something in the distance. Just beyond the field stood something black. He wanted to ignore it and just simply wait but something smelt bad to him. He could not control himself any longer, he opened the door. The animals started forward with anticipation, when he ran out they all followed, the dogs at his heal and the cats on his side. The crows swooped down on the party. Each swoop more daring, each swoop closer to its mark.
They came to the black statue and the animals knew exactly what it meant. The dogs started to howl in pain, the cats made a soft crying sound. The father of a large family stood in front of a man who had given everything to protect his own. The father started to scream but soon the crows started to attack.
The first few pecks meant nothing to him. The cats were to busy sobbing to give notice to the onslaught and the dogs were to busy howling. Soon though the pecks were bringing him to his knees. He started swatting the air in anger. This was their fault, he did not know how, he did not know why but they were obviously to blame. Soon the small party of seven animals and one human were covered in crows. A pecking, biting, beating blackness that covered everything. A crow stood on the head of the statue and laughed. Robert’s soul could only watch.
Another watched. Lord of the woods and fields, The Kaax could not look away. He knew The Jaga, he knew The Jaga could not walk and flew around as a crow. He grimaced as Robert shooed The Jaga away. He had no control over the actions of men. He could control animals, crops but nothing else.
He could not turn Robert back from stone, all he had left was his precious soul.
Robert was solid stone, completely powerless to help his friends. Unable to do anything but watch the crows take their fill. He felt something deep inside. Now that he had no feeling he knew what his soul felt like inside him. He felt a piece break off and start buzzing. It buzzed inside him and he felt his solid mouth slowly creak open.
The piece of his soul broke apart again and again, buzzing around, climbing up that concrete tube he once called a throat. Suddenly his marble like mouth was wide open and bees swarmed out, towards the blackness of the flock. They stung, and each sting was two kills. One dead crow and one dead bee, a small piece of his soul gone forever to protect the ones he loved. More of his soul broke away and split into little yellow and black striped pieces, swarming out of his mouth to protect the ones he loved. Every time a bee killed a bird with its sting a little piece of the only thing he had left was gone.
Soon his friends were standing, on two legs, on four legs. Soon after the birds were all gone. The father stood by, staring with disbelief. Soon though he would have to return to his own family. He went back with a story and the cuts and bruises to prove it.
He told the story to his family, the next day they insisted on seeing the statue of Robert. The father took his large family down the path but stopped them as the sky was black with crows. They stood by the small cottage and watched as the birds dropped from the sky one by one. The swarm of what looked like dust from the distance in which they watched issue from the black statue’s mouth. Soon the sky was clear and the family would venture forward.
They came to the statue and found the seven animals sitting around its feet looking up at them in their grief. The father placed the meat down, the animals did not touch it but stayed close to their master. The father’s family would never return to the place, the sorrow it brought to them was too much to bear.
The Kaax could only do a little, he knew souls, he knew animals, he knew sacrifice. To him it was a circle. Everything was a circle to The Kaax. Love filled a soul and fed it, made it stronger. It did not matter whether it was animal or man. He could not do much else but make the cornfield fruitful for the stone eyes to watch.
The father would return daily. He brought meat each time for the animals that lay at the statue’s feet. Three dogs soon became seven and four cats soon became twelve as time went by. Soon the Dog Trevor was gone, into the woods to die alone but his children continued to stay by the feet of their benefactor. The other families followed suit. The father knew that someday his own family would chase the same sad line. He brought his son to the statue. They were to place deer meat down for the animals but more animals had joined the flock. The two of them turned and put the dead deer back in the cart. There were now fox, rabbit and deer as well as the ancestors of the cats and dogs laying at the feet of the statue. It felt wrong to offer the animals the meat.
Soon the father died and when the son died the path completely grew over. No one knew of the lush square field of corn. The statue that watched over it, the soul that turned into bees or the crows. No one knew except The Jaga, The Kaax and the animals. No matter what onslaught the Jaga brought the love of the animals made Robert the strongest soul never to die.

The Jaga And The Kaax - Introduction

Okay, as I said before the previous story came on the heels of another story. Just popped up like the left foot follows the right. This is the previous story.
Like all stories these days I was aware of it bouncing around prominently in my head. I decided to look up a few things before hand.
The Jaga refers to Baba-Yaga, originally pronounced Jaga in the original Slavic tongue. A witch of folklore basically. Baba meaning old lady or something.
The Kaax refers to the Yum-Kaax, known both as the Lord of the woods and also the God of Maize.
It was a good story to write, set a scene, which is a puzzle and then let all the pieces fall into place. I found myself a little sad towards the end. It was really satisfying to put the last full stop in.
There may be a few changes in the future to this but as it is at the moment I'm happy.
If anything I should be editing my novels. :(
Well, enjoy......

The Blinddust Collection Memories

I renamed the blog The Blinddust Collection. Over a decade ago I used to write only short stories. Now looking back on them I find them terrible.
I feel that I have grown now from then, even though I still have a long way to go.
Sometimes I read one and thinking nice idea. Sometimes I read one and thinking Omigod what was I thinking. Maybe in another ten years I'll look at my work now and think the same thing.
Anyway, over a decade ago I decided to publish and distribute these books. I had a distribution company that sent four seperate books all over the country. It was nice to walk into a bookstore in Melbourne, Sydney or Tasmania and see one or two of your books on the shelves.
The distributor eventually sold their business and I was dropped. I was at that stage realising that I still needed a lot of practice and I was kind of thankful.
All those short stories were great practice and it was nice to have the input from people that bought them or went to my readings.
The first book was called The Blinddust Collection and I always liked that title. So here you'll find it on top of the page.
I also bought with my mum egging me on. I have a feeling she likes the name as well and wants me to do something with the millions of hours of work that I cannot help but keep doing. Hopefully the address will clear and I'll soon attach it to this page, or visa versa which ever is technically correct. I thought I'd attach an image from the first book. I drew it myself and remember really adoring it. I've made it negative so it sort of fits in with the page.
To all those people that bought those books I say thankyou and also sorry, I'll do better

Monday, May 07, 2007

Life and death as a Sitcom.

Life and death as a Sitcom.
Molecat Jumaway

“Do you watch…?” I heard the words as I drifted off, or was I asleep already and hearing the words, interpreting them into my dreams? I woke up feeling odd, as though something had happened the previous night, though nothing did. I read for a while, closed the book with a sigh, took my glasses off and put them on top of the book by my bed, turned off the light and went to sleep. That was it nadda else, not a zip of a thought, nothing. Just sleep.
The day went by; probably much the same as everyone else’s day. Everyone’s job means a lot to someone else from anywhere between five seconds and two hours. Fixing a light, someone has light, answering a call, someone can ask a question. Selling a bike, someone has a bike. Roadwork, someone can drive unhindered. Anywhere from five seconds onwards you’re appreciated at one time during the day. You don’t know it, you don’t really care, you’re doing it for the money, because you have to.
Television, small dinner, more television and then to bed and read. We work to make money so that we can live. We can’t wait to get the work part over so we can continue living. We then fill those moments that we slave and toil for with fleeting events that mean nothing. It’s boring, it is as though we have faked life, made an existence for existence itself.
My eyes fluttered closed for the journey into the eight hour hibernation. The room was dark and I was slowly ending my boring day by doing more nothing only not being conscious of it.
“Did you see….?” Was that a whisper, a voice? What the hell was that? I was asleep though and the moment flickered by without even a second glance.
I woke up with the crisp morning sun of a winters day shining through my window. I bundled myself off to the shower, dressed, ate toast, drank coffee, checked that I had not forgotten anything, wallet, keys, blah, blah, blah. Off to work I went. As automatic as it comes, I wondered whether I could get someone to trail me for a few days with a stopwatch. Time each motion and compare it to before, would there be a second’s difference? I won’t explain my work in much detail, ring, ring, hello? Ring, ring, hello? Just imagine your job and add more phones. It doesn’t matter, it is only an income. It takes up a third of my day but means nothing else but a way to keep myself nourished so I can do nothing the rest of the time. If aliens watched Earth from space would they observe all the intricate rushing parts and wonder in a little alien voice. ”But what does it do?”
Television, dinner, television, bed, book, lights off. I’m not even aware of it. It’s like I’ve manufactured some kind of clever mundane prison for myself. I was not even prepared to take notice when the lights were off and the voice came again just before I dropped off to sleep. I would wake up with the knowledge that the only thing that was remarkable about my life was that I’d started to dream about television shows. That is not an ounce of bloody remarkable. It’s not even an odd occurrence. Of course I bloody dream of television shows, it’s what I fill all my free time with. I’m saying this now, mind you. At the time I just shrugged and thought it odd.
You don’t really need to know the rest of it. Shower, blah, blah, blah, work, blah, blah. I would get home from work and not even remember what I did for those eight hours. You’d think that something would make a difference; you’d think that one thing in the day would stick out of place. Nothing, dull and dull, so much so that one-day can not be determined from another. Television, dinner, television, bed and book. I could not even tell you what I had for dinner, what I watched on television. You’d think I would be able to say what I was reading. Why read words if you’re not going to remember them?
I put the book down, my eyes were getting heavy, I took my glasses off and put them on top of the book. This was no different to any other night and I wonder now whether my eyes grew heavy at the exact same time? Did I turn off the light at the exact same time?
“Did you watch…?”
“What the fuck was that?” I exclaimed. It had caught me a moment before I was going to sleep and I was very conscious of it this time. Before it was something that happened as a slipped off. Was it a second earlier or was I going to sleep this time a second later. It did not really matter, what mattered was that I was completely conscious of it. I had the light back on, I was sitting up in my bed and looking around my room. Nothing was there, not a skerrick. Maybe I was imaging it? I had not realised but this was the first moment out of synchronisation with my other days for a very, very long time.
I finally went to sleep, woke up the same, it felt like my dreams were television shows, reruns of television shows. The only difference to this day was that I actually could recall the day. I was not on auto pilot. I was doing the same thing as I had done each and every other day but I had to make a conscious effort of it. I came home and remembered my whole day. I came home and did not turn on the television. I could not be bothered cooking, too much was on my mind so I went to a small café around the corner and ate. When I say too much was on my mind, nothing really was on my mind, the difference was that I was thinking, pondering. It was like waking up a sleeping engine and I don’t think I was handling it very well. I came home from the café and just sat on my couch, thinking. The television remained silent. Just me with my thoughts.
I went to bed, I did not pick up a book, I went to bed later than any other day previously. I went to bed and what had happened the night before suddenly occurred to me. I turned off the light and lay there, staring at the opposite wall. Was anything going to happen?
“Did you see East…?” I switched on the light, nothing.
My life was still rather of the clockwork type. The difference is that I was slowly becoming aware of this. It sat out like a sore thumb. “Wow, is this my life? How can my life be like this and I not notice?”
Though I still followed the same procedures. This day though I was quite sure something happened the night before, I heard something in my room and it buzzed around my head.
I lay there in bed with my glasses off and the light off. I would not go for the light switch this time and I would try to wake myself if I heard anything. My eyes flickered closed. It looked like I would be disappointed but then out of nowhere came the voice. I did not reach for the light, I made no sudden moves, I just made sure that I was going to stay awake.
“Did you see Eastenders tonight?” Came the voice, rather croaky and solemn. A guys voice, well rounded but also a little gruff. Find the harshest miner that you can, grab his son and put him through Oxford, you’ll have a close comparison.
“That Margery, she is a lark ain’t she. I don’t trust her husband though, I think he’s heading for a bad end….”
I called in sick the next day. I think it was the first time in ten years that I actually called in sick. Even with a cold I usually get up, shower, breakfast and go to work. It usually never occurs to me that I even have that special power. Full time job, call in sick. You can do it, so I did.
I’d been up all night, well I was laying flat but awake so up is more appropriate than down. I’d been awake all night listening to this voice prattle on endlessly about various sitcoms. I dared not say anything or move suddenly because I did not want to scare him away. I could not believe it, I would have thought I were dreaming if it was not for the complete lack of sleep. Maybe I was dreaming that I was awake though. It is a rare occurrence that you dream of being asleep. Oh, wouldn’t Jesus or Buddha love that, last night I dreamt of being a man like me, asleep and dreaming of a man like me who dreamt of a dream of simular proportions, a man who was dreaming of being a butterfly. Get fucked, doesn’t happen.
I could have been dreaming though, if I had been it was one exhausting dream. You would think an exhausting dream would be of bikini clad girls who doubled as milking machines and not some boring guy talking about Sitcoms. It wasn’t even homoerotic, it was just some shadowy figure talking about sitcoms. If that was a dream then I should ring the Guinness book of records because I am truly the most boring guy on the planet. If it wasn’t a dream then I just met the most boring guy on the planet.
So I rung in sick, first time for years. Must have been bad, I’m never sick. Yeah, so bad I don’t think I’m going to the doctor, just stay in bed. I was to my word though, stayed in bed all day wondering whether I could replicate the instance. I fell asleep many a time, nothing. Did not dream it, did not happen, nothing about Sitcoms. On the plus side those bikini clad girls were there.
Night crawled over and as the room darkened I found that this was probably my best opportunity. I felt my eyes flutter closed a bit. When you are in bed all day as some of you lazy bastards know, you slip in and out of sleep..
“Did you see Neighbours today?” It was happening. The shadowy figure in the corner, perched on my little chest of draws about to prattle on endlessly about television shows. I did not expect myself to do what I did but he asked a question so I answered.
“No, I was waiting all day for you.” Was my answer and I was half expecting him to flee.
“I can only come out at night.” Was what he said, “Your eyes flutter and we appear. You would not believe what happened to Harold though. The poor man, hasn’t he been through enough. He is a wonderful actor, has his own fan club don’t you know. Is the longest running member of the show, don’t you know…?” And on and on went the ghost, not even a pause. I watched him from my bed, even slowly sat up and watched him rattle on. He did not disappear, he did not flinch. He moved through all the shows one by one and talked endlessly.
“You know you are the most boring person I have come across.” I finally said to the thing perched in the shadows of the corner of my room.
“I am not a person which makes me not as boring as you.” He replied. He did not seem muffed by my condescension at all.
“If you are not a person then what are you?”
“I was a person, not anymore.”
“A ghost?”
“You could call me a ghost.”
“Why do you sit in my corner and talk about T.V?”
“What else is there?”
“Plenty of things I guess?” I said. “You’re a ghost, you could do anything.”
“It’s all boring.” Said the ghost in reply.
“What? Can’t you walk through walls, can’t you see things that no other person can see?”
“Yeap and it’s all excruciatingly lame. Being dead is not fun, hell would be funner than this.”
“Why?” I asked. I was seriously interested, I’ve never met anyone in the afterlife before this. It was a great opportunity to learn and broaden my horizons.
“When you’re dead you know all, you see all. Everything is expected, everything is known, it’s drab, plain, it means nothing, nothing at all.”
“Surely there are other things, things that you could explore?”
“Nope, nothing at all. It’s a fucking tiresome shit of a thing. If I were not dead I’d bloody well kill myself. If I killed myself I’d at least get a chance.”
“How would you get a chance?”
“Well I’d be damned, you kill yourself, your damned, it’s simple.” The thing shrugged.
“Why is that better, I thought that would be worse?”
“Damnation is unexpected. Whoa hey, ouch and Whoa hey, did not expect that. Nothing is more than hell than not going to hell. Take it from me, do yourself a favour and kill yourself.” Then the thing was determined to talk about the proceedings of Summer Bay for the rest of the night.
Well I can tell you that I took the next day as a sicky. I was not going to get any sleep except during the daylight hours. The night came and the ghost was right, the afterlife was as boring as all anything could be. By this stage I knew I was a pretty boring guy. I had realised that I had gone through most of my life with the autopilot button left on. This thing in front of me though was tedious, boring to the extreme. I paid attention, too much attention but as I said before, what an opportunity. Problem is that you get an opportunity to find out what life is like after death and you find the upside is bloody awful, it can be a little disheartening. I took a few more sick days off. Work was really worried about me at this stage. They sent someone to my little apartment to check in on me. They found me hanging from the rafters with a rope around my neck.
The thing was right, kill yourself and you are damned forever, die and you know everything. One thing I found out when I knew everything is that there are no ghosts. Now I’m in fucking hell!
Jason, three blocks from where I lived went to bed, put his book down and turned off the light, as his eyes fluttered closed he heard a voice.
“Did you see Eastenders tonight?”
Fucking Arsehole!

Life And Death Of A Sitcom - Introduction

Okay, I guess I'll put an introduction to this story. Finished another story which was a lot more emotional and this one just trailed after it the next day. Bounced around my head all day and then I just sat and typed it out.
It's light and I like it, there is a lot of swearing but often my lighter stories do have a lot more of the curse words. It goes with the story though, guess you'll have to read it.....

What's in a name?

At the moment I will use my own name, it is my name after all.
I do wonder if I ever get a chance in the future to show my work to the world what name I should use?
Matt Cole's are a little in the multiple. It's an okay name, it's my name after all.
It has occured to me to swap them around and choose Cole Matthews. It sounds nice, Cole is a unique first name. I would love to use Molecat but, well it seems a little fake.


Hey, My name is Molecat Jumaway.
I work, I sleep, I eat just like everyone else.
I also write stories.
While I work my brain is going over stories.
While I eat I'm thinking of stories.
When I wake up each morning more often than not I will have anywhere between one and ten stories in my head. Sometimes I'll wake up frightened.
See most of the time they are horror stories.
These days I try and turn them into novels, a few short stories filter through occassionally.

I think this may be the place to put those short stories.
Unlike my novels they are not all horror. I also have to state that the stories choose me, I don't choose the stories. They may not reflect my ideas and my views, I'm just the messenger.
I don't know how it works completely, I just type the damn things.