Back on Stockport Rd road I spot a red red sled dangling on a shop hook – if it snows this month it’ll be good for when she visits, though Levenshulme is all flat bogs, I could be a husky to her driver, rope round my waist – now would that be hernia territory or good for the heart according to the doctors at the blue cube surgery by car crash junction where I haven’t yet registered? -the one next to the unfinished mosque (Donations dried up? Planning trouble?) - you know the one?
Well I have always steered clear from writing too much on blogs as I just saw it as people needing to moan or just talk about themselves a lot.
I would like to apologise for this crude view as I have seen it do so much more, it can be used for fun, to exercise those personal demons and all sorts in fact it is a very useful tool.
Anyway my name is Danni Skerritt and I am a lesser known writer meandering from genre to different medium if it can be written I have tried it or am in the process of making it happen.
Her silky scarf covers her hair, trailing around her neck. It is powder blue; attractive, as is her face. Her dress trails to the floor, her body covered for modesty. The pot of Ginger tea is steaming and you remember the biscuits you ate as a child with lashings of hot milk. The logs on the fire burn delicately; the heat embraces you as you sit and cup your mug. The table displays a single gerbera, stemmed with wire. The waitress wears a flowery dress and she has tartan ribbons in her hair. She skates towards you, and brings with her a plate of pink cup cakes.
So hard to think… hard drive in head breaking down… putting all memories onto it, illegal I know but instant total recall, everything so much better. Will lose everything unless I can get it down, record it but… So hard to think…
A textory from Hafsah Naib's Some Text series... and some words based on that work...
I found these bits of confetti, they led me to a strange clearing in the woods, I didn't bother screaming for help just howled to the wolves so that our ancient hunger could be satisfied.
Some Text (c) Hafsah Naib 2011
I'm too curious.
Someone had left the word
'strange'
in the grass.
As I approached it,
I could see more,
'clearing'
and beyond that 'woods'.
The bushes were getting thicker.
I could see a word to my left
but 'help' was ahead.
Books & Covers
A book is born with a cover, yet no author thinks 'what should the cover look like?' as they write. Instead the words pour forth, the words are the art, a cover should be immaterial, it is merely a fetish object, the bizzarre attachment of emotion to a content as yet undiscovered by the prospective reader. We can fall in love with a cover, prize it, give it pride of place on our coffee table - 'this is who we are', we declare. We are these books. You need not have read them. Simply contemplate the covers - they declare my learning, my wisdom, my humour, my hidden depths.
Like lots of women, I have a secret lover whom for many years I kept tucked away where no-one could discover him; particularly when my grandchildren came to visit, because if left alone they sometimes decided to look in my bedroom for a stash of sweets or chocolate. In fact, I once caught the cheekiest in action.
‘What do you think you are doing?’
‘Just looking for a pen.’
‘Well, there’re plenty on my desk in the lounge.’
…Blood spilled down and soaked Journeyman’s shorts; leather pounded and viciously scorched his exposed ribcage. Still he refused to drop down and continued to let his arms swing wildly back in the hope of scoring a bingo knockout...
…But Goldenboy in his dazzling designer shorts and on the fast track to stardom cranked up the pressure. He poured on the punches, a smirk crinkling his smooth, pretty features.
CHAPTER 1
Once upon a time there was a little boy, named David, who refused to get dressed in the morning. He would run round the house in his pyjamas ..
Play in the sandpit... Chase the dogs on the lawn...
And every time his mother said "David, please come and get dressed!" he would hide…
Or kick and scream so much that it was really too much bother to dress him at all.
He would make his mother cross... His father shake his head in despair.