Thursday, 18 November 2010

You get eaten alive by the perfect lover.

Holofernes lost his head in a wine induced sleep filled sex promised
stress filled week of ill judged character..

I managed to keep mine, just...

It has been a week.

As the walls around me run red with that warm arterial spray, I shall retreat
to the country.

Pheasant pie.


& blood from the air.


  1. You write the best stories. I would buy books of them and proselytize widely. Tonight I'll raise my glass to you.

  2. Thankyou, I have a readership of one, but it is the quality that counts.
    I will bind my stories in rust & dig a hole for them to fall to you.