LORD ALF – THE NOVEL
THE BOOK HAS ARRIVED…
The best-of-the-best of the popular
I-10 Blog. A collection of essays, random ramblings, and opinionated prose; the stories that have made the I-10 BLOG what it is today. Now you can peruse at leisure - ideal bathroom reading - a little something for the weekend!
Available at AMAZON.COM.
NOW AVAILABLE AT AMAZON
‘O’er hill and dale, past moss covered dry stone walls and creeper-caught bridges. Following the ancient roads hacked by Caesar’s legions through soft English chalk and the coastal trails blazed by retreating Saxons. Twixt green bowers of gnarled spreading forests and across the wastes of stark deserted moorland – the grind of iron shod wheels squawked on greased axle trees…’
EXCITING TIMES HAVE ARRIVED…..
The Potion Peddler’s Almanac – is the first, already critically acclaimed, book from Colin James. A literary anthology of the best of his short stories.THE PEDDLER is now available at AMAZON.COM
WAR HORSE AT ARIZONA STATE UNIVERSITY
TIME TRAVELLING AT MIKE’S PLACE
WORKING STIFF AT THE CONNOTATION PRESS
Featured in this quarters F.P.R. the critically acclaimed and competiton winning essay from Colin James.
WAR HORSE is an introspective snapshot - a candid glance at those brave individuals who've paid the ultimate price and who've walked to the edge of eternity. Self-sacrifice for an uncaring world and the proliferation of universal ignorance.
"Saying "wow" doesn't do this piece justice. Very well written, but more to the point, it moved me greatly. Not easily forgotten -- I've been carrying it around in my mind for several days now. Thanks." Gale Leach. Phoenix, Arizona.
“Oh for a muse of fire” (Bill.S.HV)
Not so much. More like inspiration from Mr. Becks and his lovely daughters, always to be found loitering around the beer section of the local supermarket - just waiting to be picked up by some lonely bastard with a long night ahead of him. There's a word for 'wanton beer-bottled femininity' and it's a word which I'm not prepared to use here. Not wishing to offend, but rather to inspire, I can advise the would-be-novelist to sup deep and draw whatever wisdom it is that the thousands before us have sought at the bottom of multitudinous bottles. If at first you don't succeed, then drink, drink again!
SO WHAT YOU THINK…?
LITERARY TERRORISM, VERBAL MASTURBATION, or NOT BAD FOR A BEER SOAKED HACK...? SPILL YOUR VITRIOL, BOIL YOUR BILE, PURGE YOUR SOLE, SPIT YOUR VENOM, LETTER LUCID, SPEW YOUR GALL, RELEASE THE BEAST, LET ME HAVE IT BOTH BARRELS...
Comments and E-Mails welcomed. Cheers!
“It is a truth universally acknowledged that an Englishman in possession of a couple of quid and a belly full of beer must be in want of a curry…”
Jane Austen; Pride and Prejudice.
From the perspective of an Ancient Mariner the boards are shrinking without environmental embellishment, instead some pseudo entity in New York, with capital interests, is hedging and bonding my vessel of free enterprise with Titanic effect.
Memories of an easier life and a pocketful of cash raced through his mind as he pounded his fist into the face of his truly beloved – her split lip and blood-soaked dress sealed the covenant that would make their purgatory last forever.
Urine cascaded onto discarded burger boxes – piss splashing off white styrofoam and spotting the shoes of errant street pissers. They stood in the doorway of what by day was a corner shop, selling newspapers and cigarettes to commuters, whilst at night it magically transformed into a public toilet. Just hidden around the corner from The Slug and Cabbage, an ideal unloading point for bursting bladders, a role-on-role-off terminal for those with better things to do than queue outside full bathrooms and conform to the social niceties of public urination. They stood line abreast, their weapons pointed down range, moaning with relief at the ectasy of muscular relaxation.
The whole thing was coming apart at the seams; society was crumbling, and yet it was still tuned into reality television and pathetic talent shows. Wasn’t their reality challenging enough? Couldn’t they use their mind’s eye to envision their own silver screened debut? The sympathetic camera angles and soft lighting capturing the best side of the wrong side of an economic downturn. Wasn’t their own obvious lack of talent the reason for their pathetic self-styled performance, the reason they’d been voted off the gravy train?
Just one line-tugging bite as I prepare to cast my hook into the pool of uncertainty – hopeful that my sparkling tin fish is noticed and gobbled down as it trims and dazzles – darts and dives. ** January, 2011
The huge grounds ended abruptly at cliffs edge, terminating in a sheer drop to a pebble beach below. On a summers night you could watch elongating lawn shadows as the hall disappeared in encroaching dusk. The genus of flickering electric light at windows, illuminating the building, edging out darkness. Inaudible sighs of exhaling hot summer days giving up their heat to refreshing evening coolness. A beautiful view on a summer’s eve, but a temptation to the desperate. ** February 2011
O’er hill and dale, past moss covered dry stone walls and creeper-caught bridges. Following the ancient roads hacked by Caesar’s legions through soft English chalk and the coastal trails blazed by retreating Saxons. Twixt green bowers of gnarled spreading forests and across the wastes of stark deserted moorland – the grind of iron shod wheels squawked on greased axle trees.
The past experience of home town visits that endeared us to those special few, now left shelved, forgotten and undusted until elbow-nudged into foggy recollection by thought provoking luminosity. Precious time spent with loved ones now dependent upon a handful of post-it-notes and fading sepias - waiting to spark neurons and kindle fond rememberance.
Too late the beast utters and trembles, spittle rolls down it chin, its scales glinting like wet leather in electric light.
…A clock ticks on the wall, breeze-blown dust floats in city sunshine and the sound of metropolitan traffic ebbs through an open window…
...Bathed in the muck of the ditch he was undetectable, only his imagination betrayed his presence in the blackness of the weeds.
ALL MY OWN WORK….
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