The Wild Man – Omnibus


Twenty Is China

This one is a little different.

MB Blissett


You disappeared on August 21st, 1997.

Our last conversation was about the job interview you had left and my reminding you we needed milk and toilet paper. I was painting the dining room, taking it back to a bland magnolia whilst Elton John’s Candle In The Wind played on the radio. My biggest concern was getting the paint out of my hair and whether I could hold in the bowel movement, I needed to take until you got home. I remember fantasising about a cup of tea and a good, hot bath.

Looking back, I see that woman with equal parts envy and pity.
Envy of her innocence.
Pity for what she had coming.

Such horrors are not immediate. The evening drew on and my gut resonated with an undefined panic. I left you messages, then like a pathogen, I spread my concerns to your family and friends.

Shadows laid…

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Sunset in the field of thorns

MB Blissett

Acting upon
A decision
Taken in a
Single breath
My fingers caress
The way a hand
on a clock
Caresses each second
As you run
Into the sunset of
Your orgasm
Through a field of
Thorns as each sharp
Ache builds upon the
Last and your flesh
Filling the air
Around us with
Your breath
And as I kneel
Watching you throb
And your eyes glow
You whisper your
Appreciation with
A look
A touch
Nothing more
Yet it is everything

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Caption competition

WINNER: ‘This exchange of protein strings would be more comfortable if we didn’t speak, Klaxus.’ (from MBBlissett) This month’s photo come courtesy of: bbc.com RUNNERS UP: Your tiny hand is frozen … (from Al O’Pecia) Now they will both turn to stone. (from ZZRMark) Trump and May we? (from Inchcock) DATE: 22 July 2017

via Caption Competition: ‘This exchange of protein strings would be more comfortable if we didn’t speak, Klaxus.’ — Flibbertigibbet News

television, Uncategorized, writing

Silence,I’m Watching Television

Game of Thrones – season 7, episode 1.

I have been thinking about my youth and how I was mocked for my love of comics and pop culture, pilgrimages to Norwich and Abstract Sprocket (where i had a pull list every month), permanent residence in the fantasy, science fiction and horror sections of the library. I was happy and remain so, but it’s odd to see how such things as Game of Thrones, the MCU and DCU dominate the media now.

No, this isn’t me grumbling because what was cool and exclusive, is now worn by everyone and it’s lovely. Sure, I wish there was as much focus on original, non-superhero content but they’re our mythology now and sometimes we need to tap into it. Stories are how we figure things out, a storehouse for knowledge we don’t need to carry inside our heads but find useful to learn from.

In a thousand years, will people be arguing over the one true Spider-Man?

Anyway, Game of Thrones is fantastic television. It’s been six years since the last book, and no, I am not hassling GRRM for another one, he’s enjoying himself and life, like art is about enjoyment. I wouldn’t be putting so much into this if I didn’t and he’s been doing it far longer than I have.

Hannibal – Seasons 1 to 3.

Mads Mikkelsen is the perfect Hannibal. I also want his tailor’s number. Bryan Fuller makes shows which are gorgeous, disturbing and chilled to perfection and although this was cancelled, the hope of a return stirs my bones a little. I want to see Clarice Starling again, although Jodie Foster and Hopkins are only a dvd away, but Fuller’s take on it would be interesting, wouldn’t it?

True Detective, season 1.

There was no season 2. It was a cheese-fuelled hallucination and too ambitious for it’s own good. The first season was brutal, elegiac and unafraid of getting up close and personal with the roots of masculine duty and identity. I wrote so much crime fiction inspired by it which seldom saw the light of day as it was too obviously influenced by it.

Rick and Morty. Season 1 – 2.

It’s an instant pick me up, scabrous, clever and humane at the most surprising junctures, plus it’s Dan Harmon, what can you say?

Preacher season 1 -2

The comic book is one of my favourite series. Ever. Sod your JLA, I will choose the panel where Jesse has tears down his cheeks and says ‘sweet lord, don’t let me be dreaming’ because there’s been women I’ve thought that about. I am enjoying the tv show.

American Gods season 1.

It’s Bryan Fuller’s adaptation of a Neil Gaiman book, with Ian McShane and Gillian Andersen, why wouldn’t I watch it?

I still have Love, House of Cards and a queue on Netflix which makes me question my enthusiasm, but yes documentaries count as research, so there.

Now, I read more than I watch and I suppose I should post what I am reading. I try not to think about it because it frightens me haha.






beauty, love, short fiction, Uncategorized, women, writing

Actions Not Words


Molly put her hand over her eyes as the sunset washed the desert wasteland an ugly livid red. Peter had sent his men, but she guessed he would. You didn’t get to command the largest militia on the Eastern Seaboard without being willing to do tough shit for power. Molly had wanted to live out her days, quiet in the face of eternal disaster.

She had not wanted to give up what she had found in the desert. A piece of Visitor technology, which pulsed and breathed when she touched it. A press of a button produced a wave of kinetic energy which broke a man’s spine from sixty feet away.

Someone had seen it, told Peter. He had called her in to see him, sat in the desiccated, sad chamber of a bar in daylight, grilles on the windows and the musk of despair in the air. Peter sat in his high-backed chair, wiping at the white eye which never stopped weeping, with a yellowing handkerchief.

She knew his reputation. Saying no was suicide but out there, you kept what you found.
‘You were right, honey.’ she said.

Garrett came outside, buckling his gun belt around his waist with one hand whilst lighting a cigarette.

‘I’ve put the shotgun by the door. I want you to stay inside.’ he said.

Garrett kept his voice low, but Molly felt the tension in it scratching at her. He maintained a quiet, collegial air about him, made ammunition and custom weapons for whoever had the cash. They had met when he came to the territory, with letters of introduction from five chiefs, vouching for his credentials. He had made a beeline for her on his first night and they had been together ever since.

The situation made Molly wild with new fears atop the many she held already.

‘What about the piece?’ she said.

He shook his head and turned around, picked up the bokken from where it rested against the wall of their house.

‘Don’t. We deny it exists until confronted with evidence of otherwise.’

She got to her feet and went over to him.

‘DId I do the right thing?’ she said.

He kissed her full on the mouth. He had soft, thick lips and each brush of them against hers lent her courage. He drew back, pupils dilated with desire and appreciation.

‘I’ll tell you afterwards.’ he said.

She stood there as he walked down the steps.

‘Molly. Please go inside.’ he said.

The truck pulled up, a reconfigured utility with oversized tyres designed to negotiate the rough, harsh desert. Three guys got out, thick and bristling with muscle and faded tattoos. Craig and Jesse, with Nick carrying a length of studded pipe across his body.

A white trash tetsubo.

‘Guys, we weren’t expecting visitors. I was about to turn in.’ he said.

Garrett’s voice had the right pinch of concern added to it.

Molly held the shotgun close, watching Garrett stand in front of the three men.

‘We want to talk to Molly.’ Craig said.

Garrett shook his head.

‘She’s resting. You know she made it out to one of the test sites last week. My girl’s exhausted.’

Craig stepped forward, jabbing his index finger at Garrett’s chest.

‘Get her or the fucking thing she found. Now.’

Molly bristled with fear. Garrett had his arms down by his side, fingers loose as he took a small step backwards.

Not in retreat, but gauging, giving way to something else.

Garrett brought his right hand up, clamped it over Craig’s wrist and whipped it around. The crack of snapping tendons was loud in the evening air. Not as loud as his screams and the shouts of surprise from the others.

Nick swung the iron pipe in a practiced, tight arc and Garrett picked up the bokken, swung it across so the tip bit into the left side of Nick’s knee. He folded, the bar slipping from his hands and slamming into the top of his head with a dull thump. He writhed on the sand, clutching at his face with the shine of blood welling up between his fingers.

Jesse pulled a tomahawk from his belt, screamed and came running at Garrett, eyes bulging in their sockets. Molly toed the door open and fired at the ground.

Jesse jumped to one side, allowing Garrett to bring the bokken into a two handed grip and chopping it down into Jesse’s collarbone, stopping short with the blow as his discipline allowed.

He looked over his shoulder.

‘Thought I told you to stay inside.’ he said.

She pouted and threw back the bolt on the shotgun.

‘You asked me. Big difference.’ she said.

He chuckled. Craig tried to sit up but Garrett put the point of the bokken to the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

‘You can tell Pete whatever you want. But if I see you again, I won’t be so polite.’ he said.

Craig clutched his damaged wrist and spat in the dust.

‘Fuck you, you’re dead and so’s she.’ he said.

Garrett looked up at Molly, raised an eyebrow and a pang of regret raked at her insides.

She nodded.

Garrett stepped backwards, turned the revolver in its holster and pulled the trigger, turning with each shot. The three men laid out.

‘So, you never told me?’ she said.

Her voice wavered, head throbbing as it crammed in the new reality of things.

He came back over to her. His hand brushed against her cheek.

‘Judge me by my actions, not what I say.’ he said.

She rested her hand over his and kissed the inside of his wrist.
They had little to leave behind. They took the truck, left the bodies and the desert rolled out before them.

He took her hand as he drove, squeezed it between his as the night swallowed them up.