Yesterday

It's been a little while since I've added anything here... work, life, stuff like that getting in the way of writing (sometimes, even cleaning the toilet serves as a good excuse to stay away from the keyboard). Anyway, this short story should've made it as an entry in a 750 word flash fiction competition in Writing Magazine. Problem was, I forgot all about it and didn't send it off in time for the closing date. So, here it is. Have a read. Oh, and, if you're wondering, it's a little longer than 750 words (allowed a little embellishment - well I did miss the closing date)

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Today he woke wishing it was yesterday. His body drenched with sweat. Sheets stuck to his skin. Limbs forming a loose right-handed swastika, a Hindu good luck charm. He feels neither luck nor good fortune. The dream fresh like raw meat, wet and bloody. His tongue dry, sticky, a metallic morning taste. Saliva absent, nothing to swallow. Swaddled by the sheets and the filaments of the dream, he lay motionless, eyelids moving over dry eyes, letting the day come to him.

"Christian?"

He's at work, taking orders, waiting tables. The customer, a casual stranger, sits in a dark corner. "Usual table," he'd say when greeted at the front of house, "Christian serves me."

"Christian?" The man's voice thick, a throaty growl. No other voice for a pitted face.

Christian's waiting a table. The candle bathes the couple with a flicker of shadows hinted at gold. The boy orders. The girl corrects. Both smile. "Oh, yes," the boy says, "silly me." The boy spies the name tag. "That bloke's calling you."

I know, Christian thinks but doesn't say it. He repeats their order.

"You forgot the bruschetta." The boy smiles at the girl.

"Christian." The growl again.

Away from the couple, he rips their order from his notepad, the bruschetta missing. "Maria," he says, holding out the single page, "take this to the kitchen?"

"Sure," she says, watching him go to the strange customer.

"Christian, what kept you?".

"Taking orders," he says.

"They bothering you?" The stranger looks to the couple. Gaze full of contempt.

Christian wonders at the question. Looks at the man. What's being offered? "They're fine, really they are" he says. "Usual?" He asks, wanting to move this along. He touches pencil to notepad.

"Today, a change." Christian says nothing. "You don't want to know why the change?" He shrugs. Can see a flash of anger cross the strangers face, a movement in the hands as they ball to fists. "Get me the Tagliolini al Tartufo. Not with norcia. Tell the chef, serve it with coccio, maggiorana, capperi."

"But," he begins to complain.

"Tell the chef, come here if he cannot do this."

He knows better than to argue. "Antipasti?"

"Not today. A glass of Antinori Tignanello. Nineteen-ninety-seven, mind. None from the new millennium, not given time to mature."

Christian stares, it's the most expensive wine on the menu. "Sir, Antinori's sold by the bottle."

The strangers eyes narrow, gaze direct. "For me, Christian, you serve by the glass."

"Yes, Sir."

"Go. I'm hungry and thirsty."

The chef rages. "I spit in his Tagliolini. Tell him I do what he wants. Tell him I waste Tartufo. Tell him I hope he chokes."

Christian holds back. "The chef will oblige."

"And the wine?"

"I need time. There's a stocktake tomorrow."

"You've had time. The stocktake's your problem, not mine. My wine is free. Remember our arrangement?"

How could he forget? The arrangement started four months ago with the payment of a bill.

Sixty-eight pounds and seventy-two pence is a good price. The customer with the pitted face takes four new fifty pound notes from his wallet. "What's your name?"

"Christian."

"Christian, this will cover the meal. Keep the change."

"But, Sir, it's too much"

"Keep it."

"Thank you." He decides to say nothing. Pockets two of the fifties on his way to the till. Checks the remaining fifties with the pen and UV. They're good. Adds the remaining change to the tips. Takes the receipt to the table.

The customer checks the receipt. Smiles. Exact payment, no change. "Thank you," he says and pushes a white package across the table. Leaves it between them. The package is the size of a cigarette box. "Take this home. Don't open it. Someone will collect it tonight."

"Sir, I can't."

"My money's not good now?"

He's been bought. Realises too late. He takes the package. At one-thirty in the morning there's a knock on his door. The package is taken.

Four months, twice a week, a white package each time. Only, the stranger asks for more each time. Now he's demanding free wine. The best wine. A stock take tomorrow. He'll be found out. Two fifties, and whatever the change, is not enough.

At home, needing to know, the knife shaking in his hand, he cuts open the white package. Inside there's a block of red Lego, neatly constructed, not a space between bricks.

The day came to him. Not a dream. He shifts in bed, breaking the charm. Looks at his hands. The blood has dried, it's almost brown. He remembers his rage, the look on the strangers face. The knife. "Lego," he screamed over and over with each strike.

Today he woke wishing it was yesterday.

The Temp - A short story by Andrew Hyde

Before getting right on into the story, as a way to giving a brief intro, I'd like to go back to a 'Once upon a time' moment. So, once upon a time, there used to be this, free to enter, monthly short story competition run by the BBC. You were given the first sentence and the writers task was to complete the story within 750 words (short, short story). Well, this one month, liking the idea of the competition, thinking it a good writing exercise, I thought I'd have a go. This is the story I entered and, what'cha know, that month, mine was the winning entry. At the time, I'd not long lost my Mum to cancer so, this is for you Mum.

---

It was only after clicking 'send' that Rebecca realised what she had done...

She watched the blue bar progress along the screen.

Five percent complete.

Hitting the escape key the first time didn't do anything, so she had no idea why hitting it again, and again, and again would make any difference at all. She had a go anyway!

Maybe hitting it harder would help?

No, hitting it harder didn't help!

Not one bit!

She hit it again, one last time, for the sheer hell of it. It made her feel better.

The blue bar continued its relentless march across the screen.

Ten percent complete.

Control, Alt and Delete - the saviour of the tortured soul, and she was a tortured soul. She stabbed at these keys, broke a nail, hit the Insert key by mistake, swore, moved her hair from her eyes and then hit the Delete key square on. Something happened... the blue bar jumped forwards another notch. She swore again and this time heads turned.

'What?' she shouted and the heads turned away.

'Shit!' she exclaimed as the blue bar grew in length.

In an exaggerated random pattern she stroked, hit, punched and swiped at the keyboard until her desk shook and the monitor trembled with fear on its plastic stand.

The blue bar progressed on its merry way.

Thirty percent complete.

What now? She had no idea!

She grabbed the mouse, and clicked its buttons. Nothing happened! She thumped it against the mat and pulled its tail with spite. She turned it upside down and looked at its belly, poked the grey lump of a ball that lurked inside and thumped it down for a second time.

Nothing! Absolutely, nothing!

What else could she do? She spied the glass of water! Sure, why not. She smiled, but it was with a manic grin that she lifted the mouse, by its tail, and plopped it in the glass. Drowning that stupid thing made her feel really good.

The blue bar lurched forward.

Sixty percent complete.

The mouse belched a bubble of air and the cursor jumped, jerked and arched across the screen. Why couldn't it have done that when she wanted it to? Why now, in the middle of its death throes?

Drown mousy drown!

It was time for some serious action. Rebecca reached under her desk and jabbed at the power button.

Not a flicker.

The monitor glowed in full thirty-two-bit colour and the bright blue line taunted her as it jostled for the finish line.

Seventy five percent complete.

She jabbed at the power button again. Punched it with her knuckle. Pushed at it with her finger and tried to squash that squishy blue button with all the power she could muster. The computer toppled backwards.

Again nothing, nada, zilch, zip, diddlysquat, sweet Fanny Adams, bugger all.

'Oh, Bugger off!' now she was shouting at inanimate objects. She heard giggling. They were laughing at her. Who cared anyway? She was passed caring. Well, no she wasn't, actually she cared too much, but she would worry about that later. Now... well now... she had a computer to kill!

Ninety percent complete.

The power socket was somewhere behind her desk, but the power cable was another story. Rebecca slid off her chair and disappeared under her desk. Anyone passing would have a great view of her bum but there were more important things at risk than her pride.

Ninety five percent complete.

Without ceremony she tugged the power cable out of the computer. It died! Something clattered on her desk and water poured through her hair. With a sigh, she slotted the cable back where it belonged. Climbed out from under her desk, slouched in her chair and brushed her wet matted hair from her face. The glass was lying on its side and the mouse floundered in a puddle of water.

The computer booted. Rebecca typed in her password. Boxes flashed on the screen.

There it was, like a phoenix rising out of the ashes, reincarnated before her very eyes.

Ninety nine percent complete.

Message sent.

She sighed, it was all she could do. Computer after computer sounded a small ding - You've got mail. People started to laugh, point and turn, mouths agog. Rebecca stood and walked her longest walk. They could clear her desk.

Howdy, y’all. Me names, Higgs. I’m bipolar, and a mews.

I’ve often wondered if the way I write, the way I see things, hear things, notice detail, all those things that end up in the final cut, get there through the same process as other writers? What’s this thing, the whatchamacallit, you know, that thing they call the creative process, what exactly is that thing?

I ask because I’ve often little idea about what I’m going to write. Is that too big an admission? Surely I’m not flying a solitary flag on a chill breeze, there must be other writers working in the same way? Okay, maybe not. Let me start again. What I mean is, if I start writing with an inkling of an idea (I don’t have the audacity to hint at something with the grandeur of plot), the idea’s oft to go awry and change at very short notice (please don’t say I’m alone on that one). I know there are writers out there who plot to the n-th degree. That’s not me, I assure you, and it’s not the way I work. It’s not the way my mind’s wired.

Maybe I should go back a bit (queue Bill and Ted’s wavy, going back in time, dance – blibble-blibble bblibble bblibble-bblibble cos that’s the sound going back in time makes and if you don’t think so you’ve watched Back to the Future too many times!).

There was a time, way back in my writing past, where I’d get all shocked and upset when a story veered off the way marked path (as Higgs would say, “Yer walkin’ long the feckin’ tourist route there”). I’d scream, “Story, I know best. I know how you started and I know how you’re ending, I even know the bits in the middle so, for god’s sake, you’re gonna do as I say, dig it?”

Way back then, I was pretty much daring the story to take a life of its own, ‘cause I were god amongst those ribbon-worn words. If I wanted to put a character in an impossible situation, a situation that would see the character come to a sticky end, then that character better live with it and woe betide if he, or she, found a way to cheat the plot, and cheat death. I hated those clever little characters the most – they were always looking for holes that I couldn’t see, but holes they’d find, little chinks in plot that allowed their escape, and they’d do it, oh, so easy. God damn the clever ones to hell...it’s always the clever ones that don’t wanna play ball, don’t you think?

And – after a mini zen meditative pause – we’re back in the room...

Back then, all those many years ago (well, twenty summin’ years ago, anyway), I couldn’t have the story dictating to me (me, the storyteller, of all people), I was the one in control (like hell ya were, hoss) and I’d go over the stuff I’d written and launch at it with my great big wooden mallet and editing chisel – knocking bits off, shaving a corner (or three) down to size, and hacking away until the whole piece of writing had been cajoled in to place. Only, it hadn’t really, had it? All that remained was the proverbial square peg in the proverbial round hole. The resulting story was one, out of place, lonely, and contemptible, piece of self-righteous shite.

The story may have been the perfect fit, but at what cost? Well, let me tell you the cost. The cost of all that weighty editing and cajoling was the flow of the prose itself. The thing that was wrong was the very thing that I (and all writers) needed right. So (and this took me a long time to realise) with all my best intention I hadn’t made a really good (not even half-way descent) fit at all – not one stinking, goddamn, bit of it was a fit. From all the effort (writing and re-writing), all I’d managed to do was singlehandedly ruin the flow of something that really – if I’m honest here – knew how to flow like it should flow without my clumsy intervention. Leave well alone, you – you thinking you’re the typing god of Ribbon World (cos, really, yer don’t know Jack ‘bout nuttin’).

Ready Higgs, standing in the wings...

Aye, this is where I come in, right round now. See, he started hearing me voice. Not well rounded, not right ‘way. No, Sir. Took me a lot o’shoutin’ to get heard, let me tell ya. He only hear me good now and ‘gain. You see it. Know’s what I’m sayin’? ‘E’s the one that know’s it, the one that ‘ears it.

Yer see, I gives him bits, little stuff to take home, stuff to put down through his fingers on t’page. Now an’ then, he don’t need no worry, cos he sees it ‘imself...when he does that, he’s pretty much good to go a whole load on ‘is own. I let ‘im loose some. What he might need, and need more often than not, is a good ‘ard talkin’ to. Sometimes there’s big stuff that goes right on pass ‘is ‘ead. That’s when ‘es a stupid ole fecker, right there, when he misses stuff. Might be stuff lit up like the mother of neon signs, don’t matter, he’s apt to miss it. No need to worry, I’ll call on ‘im as good as anyone. “Oi, yer twat, you miss it good a proper!” ‘Tis what I say and he listen to me. Don’t always mean he’ll put it in, mind. No Sir. Just means I got ‘is ‘ttention. Sometimes he’d turn his ear from the big chief in the sky ‘imself – and it wouldn’t take ‘im much doin’ at that. Turn ‘is ear and (blah, blah,blah) he’d pretend not to hear – whatever suits I’m, ‘tis what I say. “Look, Higgs, Hemingway said something like ‘If you show a gun on a wall, you better use it.’ Don’t go telling me stuff that’s of no use.” And, I say, “Whatever suits yer best, Hoss.” Yer can’t drag no tramp t’water an’ make ‘im wash. Only, sometimes, I gotta say, most when he’s lost ‘is way, “Yer looking for that gun on the wall ain’t cha, the one I told yer ‘bout?” It’s nice to be smug.

Alright, Higgs, you’ve had your say. Now, go swoosh your clicking ice in the whisky someplace else, far enough away so I can’t smell those stinking Marlboro cigarettes of yours.

So, Higgs came along and things changed. Higgs, he’s the one that sits in my ear when I’m writing. Calls himself a mews - maybe he is. I’ve learnt to listen to Higgs. He ain’t well educated, and he’s got one hell of an accent (that I have to edit out), but he’s lived his goddamn life like you wouldn’t believe. Higgs has squeezed two or three lives in his sixty or so years. Oh yeah, I should mention, Higgs is just over twenty years my senior. In short, what he hasn’t seen ain’t worth writing about. Higgs is quite happy to tell other peoples stories, ain’t so keen to tell his own though. It’s one way of getting him off my back. All I’ve got to say is, “Right, Higgs, let’s get out a bit of your story then” and, don’t it go all quiet.

Higgs has his quiet times. Times where he’s got to go off and disappear. It can’t be good when the only channel you’ve got to get your stories out is this forty-something bloke that don’t always listen. When I can’t hear Higgs, those times he’s gone off, I know it’s bad for him. He’s bipolar, has to take the time out to get himself right. It doesn’t really matter that he’s gone, ‘cause I know that when he comes back, he’s manic. Higgs and manic ain’t pretty, let me tell you. When he’s manic, there’s hardly enough hours in the day to get his stories out. When he’s like that, I’ve got to do sketches of stories. That’s how Higgs wants to work. “Yer just gotta listen, right. I’ll tell ya the basic, get them’s out the way first. Then comes the devil of the detail later, when I’m good and ready,” is what he says, and that’s pretty much how things develop.

From the rough sketch, Higgs goes on to tell his stories. Only, I’ve learnt not to get in his way. If he veers from his sketch, he’s got reason to. Let him go for it, and I might even say, “yer walkin’ long the feckin’ tourist route there, Higgs,” right back at him.

So, to Higgs (my bipolar muse), keep them coming matey, it’s been good working with you.

If you’re ever in Wallichi, on the wrong side of the river with the smell of river tug diesel in your hair, go find Constance Drive. About half way up, near the bus shelter and the wrecked public phone booth, you’ll see Sam’s 24/7 store. Either Sam or his wife Rita will be behind the counter. Say a friend sent you. Say you’re looking for Higgs. They’re likely to tell you where he’s at. Course, as soon as the bell above the door’s rattled you a goodbye, they’ll be phoning Higgs, telling him someone’s on the way. Don’t let that put you off. Go say hello to the big chap, mention me and ask if he’s got a story to tell. If he offers you a whisky, take it, and put your feet up ‘cause you’re gonna be there some time.

Implant Me - A short story by Andrew Hyde

A well known chip manufacturer brought the first two-hundred-and-fifty-six core processor to market on the day Marcus Clink was born. One thousand teraflops of processing power in the home, said the press release. Run local weather simulations in real time and see how much rain your herbaceous borders are due. It all went over the Clink's heads. No herbaceous border in their garden. No garden, to be exact. What's more, news of the processor didn't stop Marcus from screaming.

Nearly four thousand people watched the webcast of his birth, thanks to the 'Live Cam' button clipped to Mr Clink's shirt. The button had been a birthday present. Mrs Clink thought it'd be a good idea. Everyone has one. Where was the harm? So far they'd earned eight credits of shared advertising revenue. "Live Cam: archiving your life", was the by-line that brought them an argument. Webcasting the birth wasn't intentional, Mr Clink's mistake. Should have turned it off. Mrs Clink wasn't impressed. Twenty-thousand users watched the webcast as their argument raged; most tuned out when a site flash reported: Live Cam Freak storming Arizona school, sixteen dead in gun carnage...archiving their lives...click here to watch...

Mr and Mrs Clink's life less ordinary, born in the age of eight bit computing, found technology perplexing. Still read paperbacks. Strange behaviour in a life of binary noughts and ones, thought some. They simply didn't get along with anything digital. When asked to look back, their lives were waymarked by operating systems they'd never mastered, implants they'd shied away from. Trying to keep up with the switchovers, they'd filled skip after skip as High Definition turned to Super High Definition before Ultra High Definition turned to Super 3D. Friends, seeing hologram actors standing in flower pots or embedded in cupboards, said they needed to adjust the vertical hold. They tried. With severed heads mouthing words on the floor, the Clink's called a technician.

They shrugged their shoulders as bits doubled and quadrupled until they were left wondering what the '512 Inside' sticker meant on the box. Didn't seem to matter, the little black boxes always ran slow after a week or two.

"Who's our clever little didums?" they said when Marcus, aged three, had the little black boxes running just right. Even let him watch an extra hour of iNetTV.

When Marcus was four they entered a live parliamentary debate, marvelled that they didn't have to move from the armchair. The BBC wanted advertising revenue. It would mark the end of an era, said the Clink's, quality would suffer. No, said the man from the BBC, quality would be better. They voted 'No' and pressed the red button. Told you so, said the Clinks when quality dropped. Programs from China, lip sync sucked.

When Broadband went Wideband they read the headlines 'Information Super Fastway', and they said it was about time, films take an age to download. Turned out, the information was piled up against them when the insurance companies caught on. Oh, and, films continued to take an age to download; something to do with an unbundled loop and copper wire not compatible with superconducting fibre. "Yeah, sure," they said, "whatever," and watched the progress bar.

They couldn't find argument with the politician who said, "People have been tagging pets for thirty years. Your child means more than a lost dog. You must vote yes." They pressed the green button and the legislation became law.

On his sixth birthday, invite clutched in small hand, Marcus was at the office for Information and Identification. Found they had their argument for the politician. Ninety credits was a lot for something compulsory.

"Ah, funny you should say that. You get's this 'Search Chip' implanted in little Marcus and the ID Chip's for free," said the smiling Installer.

"But, how much is the Search Chip?" they asked.

"Special offer. Free for the whole month of June."

They nodded and agreed.

Accepted. Greasy thumb print on screen. Son's head clamped tight. Machine buzz. Laser dot warm on the back of his neck. Marcus screamed. Two days of high temperature, headaches and bad dreams. Then, finally, as the brochure stated, they benefited from a wireless enabled son. Away from home, he beeped on the Sat Nav. Away from the Sat Nav, he beeped on www.where-am-i-now.gov.uk.

After a year of neural integration, the Search Chip brought search results quickly to mind.

"Marcus?"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"What's the capital of Mongolia?"

A blink. "Ulaanbaatar is the capital of Mongolia. It sits on the Tola River. In recent years, due to global warming, the river has dried up. The city has a population of one-point-five-million. Is a centre of excellence for the motor industry. Do you want to follow the sponsored link for more information?"

"No ta, but thanks." his father said, completing the crossword.

A five-thousand teraflop processor came to market when Marcus turned thirteen. Meet your great grandparents, run real time ancestor simulations, said the press release. Marcus wasn't interested. With the Search Chip modded he had virtual worlds in his head. A few, running version one-point-zero of the mod, became confused, blurred the virtual with reality. The web full of stories: Confused Teenagers Empty Machine Guns In malls. Marcus wasn't one of them. He did have a psychotic episode with the rollout of version two-point-five that left a twelve inch scar across his chest. The Clink's thankful that version two-point-six was only an hour behind.

"Marcus?"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"What's the capital of Niger?"

A blink. "Niamey is the capital of Niger. It sits on the Niger River. In recent years, due to global warming, the river has dried up. The city has a population of one-point-five-million. Is a centre of excellence for the recycling industry. Do you want to follow the sponsored link for more information?"

"No ta, but thanks," his father said. "See, it even works in his sleep."

"Marvellous," said his mother, "this really is good. Do you think we can ask him anything else?" They did. Finally went to bed an hour later knowing, amongst other things, the atomic mass of hydrogen, the half-life of plutonium-239 and the mating ritual of the emperor penguin.

The Clink's didn't understand their son's schooling. "So, what do you do all day?"

"Search."

"What do you mean 'Search'?"

"Just sit and search, Dad," Marcus had his head to one side. Blank look. Iris like a disc cut from the night.

"You gotta do more than that. Where's the homework?"

"Don't do homework, Dad. Just search the answers. Search tells us."

"Search tells you," he repeated. Where's the learning?

This gave the Clink's their worries.

"I've got my worries," said Mr Clink.

"Me too."

"Do you think we did the right thing with that Search Chip thingy."

"I've wondered that myself," said Mrs Clink. "It spooks me when he sits by the computer and words miraculously appear on the screen."

"Me too," agreed Mr Clink.

"It's wireless, isn't it?"

"Aye, wireless it is."

When Marcus was sixteen he said, "This is Eloise."

"Nice to meet you, Eloise," said the Clink's.

Eloise gave a small nod, barely a movement, nice to meet you too. Turned out she didn't talk much. Not that Mr and Mrs Clink could hear. They noticed that Marcus and Eloise had this quiet rapport going on. Smiling, laughing, winking and nodding towards one another without a single word between them. They noticed it elsewhere, quiet groups of teenagers walking round, throwing glances and seeming to laugh at nothing.

"It's wireless, isn't it?" asked Mrs Clink.

"Aye, wireless it is," agreed Mr Clink.

They were watching the news on Marcus's eighteenth birthday. "We're off the teraflop scale here. We're not talking about exaflops, nor zettaflops, if you were going to give it a ranking it'd be infiniteflops," the 3D man was saying in the corner of the living room. "This is true quantum computing. You get the answer before it's asked. That's fast," said the 3D man. "Damn fast. You'll see what I mean when this baby goes live. You won't have seen searches like it. "

"What's an 'infiniteflop'," asked Mrs Clink.

"Sound's like me own problem," said Mr Clink.

"You are rude," laughed Mrs Clink.

"In other news," continued the news reader, standing in the corner of their living room, one foot in a mock coal scuttle, "the National Union of Teachers are holding an all night vigil in Duddlestone, Somerset. In this unassuming town, the countries last school will close its gates tomorrow evening. 'It's a real shame,' said Mr Harwick, spokesman for the union that represents the last sixteen teachers. 'We've failed the children. It's a travesty,' he said.

"Anita Hodd, Minister for Education, said 'A travesty, my arse. Since it was Green Button Politics that made the Search Chip compulsory for all six year olds, you can't lay blame on the government. The public have voted. Since the Search Chip became compulsory, we've never had such a high rate of examination passes.'

"Mr Harwick, would argue that we're not teaching the children anything except how to regurgitate Search results," accused the news reader.

"I won't be drawn to that debate," said the Minister. "All I'll say is: the success of the Search Chip has made traditional schooling a complete nonsense. By closing schools, we are releasing billions of credits to the treasury.'

"When asked to comment on the four-o-four, page not found, error that has children clutching their heads and screaming in pain, the Minister refused to comment, saying 'a cure for this annoyance was top priority'," said the newsreader.

The Clink's turned off the TV, they were shaking their heads, "Didn't know it'd end up like this, did we love?" Asked Mr Clink.

"No, dear, we didn't," agreed Mrs Clink.

Marcus turned to Eloise, a small, virtual, nod and it's all the social comment they had.

Introducing my ass

Well Hi, Howdy, Watcha, Hello (he says after wondering how to start this off). Should I get the greetings out of the way first, the ‘Who the feck is this’? Oh, why not.

Name’s Andrew Hyde. I live in South Wales (the old one, as I say on my @WordBlindProse twitter account). I’m more a family kinda man than anything else I can think of to describe the me that I am. Married, one kid, did have a dog but now got a goldfish (easier to deal with when a fish dies after a few months than when a dog dies after fifteen years). Like most people, had shit times, had good times (didn’t Dickens use that to open ‘A tale of two cities’?). Mostly, I can say, I’ve had good times. Life’s been the bitch, but who don’t like being treated rough now and then? I like to think of that ‘Biatch called Life’ as more that ‘Dominatrix Called Life’ (more aptly describes my relationship with her so far). Life’s taken a load of family and friends from me, and they’re all missed. But, then, life just-a keeps on rolling along. The forty-year-old-something with tyres worn, bit of metal frame showing, but rolling nevertheless. Might be a blowout somewhere along the line, but, for now, let’s just hope it’s a slow puncture.

As a day job, I’d refer to myself as a ‘Code Monkey’ – the lesser spotted computer programmer (lesser spotted ‘cause we’re usually locked away in dark rooms – when was the last time you ventured into the IT department? See what I mean and, if you did, weren’t it a mistake that got you there?). Like most people, I work with a bunch of comedians, the office banter kind of comedians you’re used to. I also work with a few that are on their way to the far right of the autism scale (yeah, before you say it, dyslexia’s autistic spectrum – oh, but I ain’t mentioned that yet, have I). I mean, past the dyslexia/dyspraxia (just touching on autistic) side. And, those guys are kinda funny as well.

What I’m not, is one of those clever computer guys. Definitely not in the group of programmers that bring you good stuff like Halo, or cool stuff like face recognition to your photo album. Nope, that’s not me – that involves math and shite. I’m the corporate computer guy, getting data from databases. One of those computer guys that get admin and clerical staff cursing under their breath, making their days seem longer. If you get an error message ‘Unhandled Exception’, give a little nod of knowing, that’s the stuff I do (and, no, I don’t work for Microsoft).

But, I’m not here to talk about the day job (well, not a lot of the time anyway – ‘cause I ain’t sayin’ it won’t creep in).

I sometimes go by the online alias WordBlindProse (then again, sometimes I don’t). When I use the alias, it’s ‘cause it gives something away about me. Suffice as to say, I love writing and I’m dyslexic...so that’s out of the way then. The two don’t really go together (I know), a bit like apricots and toast (apricots in general really, they don’t go with anything – don’t get me started). Writing’s something I do nigh on every day – in one form or another. I write stories, fiction (there’s very little non-fiction I like, my head’s more adapt at escapism than realism). It’s the writing that I’m here for. Sorry if that bores you, I’ll let you run, but it’s why I’m blogging – no excuses or pretence at anything else.

These blogs will be about me, myself, and I. An account of the lazy, forty-something, wannabe, writer – yet to be published (you can’t include the staff magazine as published). I say ‘lazy’ as I’ve more unfinished, just getting started, stories littering my hard drive than I do polished, finished, ready for press, stuff. Is that the general way of things for people who love writing? God knows. If you know some writing dudes or dudettes, maybe ask them for me, and let me know.

So, anyway, that’s me, the introduction, near done. Sometimes you’ll get musings of this forty-something bloke from South Wales (the old one, not the new one) and sometime you’ll get a short story (if I can polish and post, and, then, if you really wanna read).

For now, ta-ta.

And

WordBlindProse