Speculative

Of course, despite being retired I do have a backlog of personal projects that need completing or in some way publishing. A third skipcore EP as Dirty Lag is half done, the first chapter of my first novel is half done, a community digital arts project is half done, a couple of extended short stories are half done…

So there is plenty to concentrate on completing. Not that I’m entirely a non-finisher. My fifth speculative flash fiction piece has just gone off to 365 tomorrows – it’s called The Pipe, and it’s about those pesky Bulgarians who live underground plotting the The New Dawn for Sofia. My previous four speculative works were all published by 365, so I hope to make it a clean sweep of five.

I’ve also completed Festival of Martyrs, a collection of short stories. Just waiting for the second printed sample to come back – the first sample included some poetry which I’ve now replaced with prose, and I’m hoping to have it ready for the season of good will.

Amos Well

There's a black dog up on the hill yonder. My Amos wouldn't tolerate the dogs on his fields but nowadays they run wild with nobody to stop them. Standing here on the back porch I always thought of that hill as Amos Ridge, though never said such a thing to him, lest he take the strap to me like some poor child he taken a dislike to. Everything around here got the mark of Amos upon it, including me. This is his farm. Amos Farm. That there: his field. Amos Field. Follow Amos Track down to the old barns where Amos done his slaughtering. Those poor cows afforded no dignity, in life or death. Amos Barns. Amos Meat. And then there's me. Wife, he called me. Like I got no name of my own. Amos Wife. Well, not any more. Not since I took a rock to him, and put him down the well, bloody and confused and maybe a mite regretful. Now I'm Amos free.