Silence is NOT Golden


Today is turning out to be a festival of nightmares… which you’ll see in a minute is ironic in a beautiful and painful way.

Nightmare a) it’s snowing
I hate the snow. It’s slippy, which causes me to spend the whole day walking around like a crane with vertigo; gingerly picking my way past the lethal freezy bits and crossing all my fingers I don’t end up on my butt. It’s very ridiculous and very stressful and sets up my whole day on completely the wrong side of calm.
It also causes problem b…

Nightmare b) my dog is a super wound up vortex of bonkers!!!!
Fable, in contrast to her owner, absolutely freaking LOVES the snow… more than gravy bones, more than her spot by the Aga, more than her loudest squeaky toy, more than frozen apple slices. More than EVERYTHING. As a result she CANNOT calm down and is currently torturing me by picking up everything in my office she knows she’s not allowed to chew, and trying to sit everywhere she’s not allowed to sit. If I have to shout “off” or “leave it” one more time, the neighbours will probably phone me into the funny farm.

Nightmare c) I have a snow/dog combo induced tension headache brewing.

Nightmare d) I have writer’s block.
Yup, yawn. But it’s true. I’m supposed to be working on a flash piece for a psychological horror competition I want to enter on the theme of… you guessed it… NIGHTMARES.
Does anyone else find that the second writer’s block strikes, every story you’ve ever even vaguely wanted to write starts jockeying for position behind the one you absolutely CANNOT make headway on?
So I tried to change lanes, had a go at another project…. NOTHING. Jammed solid. Zip. Zero. Crickets. Total, distinctly un-golden, silence.

Going back to the original piece… this is what I’ve got so far. I’m riffing in a kind of feminist sci-fi vein at the moment in my work. So the premise for this one is that a guy working in a coma ward has developed an obsession with a patient, and is planning to break into her dreams.

It was her mouth that made him want her. The lips slack, and plump like her name; Cherry. Open a fraction so he could see the tips of her teeth, catching the light like diamonds set in the damp black of her mouth. Maybe it was that name of hers. Layla Cherry. Lewd on his tongue whenever he whispered it, alone on the night shift. Lay-la, who lay with him all day and all night. His charge. His precious cargo. He, her watchman. He traced his fingertips the length of her bare thigh, his touch kept at bay by the glass of her coma pod. Damn thing, he thought, watching her breath misting into the chilled air trapped within. His moment was coming though, the device was finished. The glass would soon be irrelevant. All that was left was to wait, until no one was around to see him do it.

And there I am, stuck fast. So I’m off to drink a lot of coffee and bang my head on my desk. Or play with my wonderful, nutty dog. Maybe both. Whatever shakes something loose.

Bye for now


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