Wednesday, 29 September 2010
Monday, 27 September 2010
Saturday, 25 September 2010
Friday, 24 September 2010
I’m not giving him an introduction because lately we have been slagging each other off. Me in DNM Fiction paper pamphlets and he on creative writing forums. All I will say is that this is his flash story and he is the author. Ah what the frig...the original and best, here he is, buckle your braces, you either love him or loathe him, marmite thru & thru, as odd and as zany as a bathtub full of cut seagulls on the back of a 3-wheeled travelling freak show circus carnival thingy....Mr D dot Howsar.
Thursday, 23 September 2010
The plan is to churn out more unique one-off ornaments, but faster. The key goal, from here on in, if it hasn't been put into work already, is to make the observer ask themselves what it is they are looking at. Making a plant pot or a hand or a figure of a woman is all well and good, but they are all too obvious and have been done before (and far more expertly, at that).
The Ceramic Devision
Tuesday, 21 September 2010
Follow link beneath for painted cups
Sunday, 19 September 2010
EDITED BY A.MICHAEL
....is someday. Someday. Someday I will be a stranger on a balcony, gazing at the stars with nothing to lose. Eating and drinking what I like as the waves lap the shore all night long. The kids shall no longer be cub scouts and brownies, but career people tending to cub scouts and brownies of their own. My ripe old age will be healthy and wealthy, having used the system to my advantage, standing on the shoulders of giants.
I will be a person with nothing to fear in the morning, a peaceful pensioner breathing crisp beachside air. My phone will be off, and my music on; music so loud that the luxury sailing yachts can hear it out on the bay.
The following day will be a pot pourri of mysteries, spent with interesting & beautiful people in exotic locations. A jet ride here, a helicopter ride there. Theatre, opera, sports in a stadium. Eye-popping, outdoor lovemaking.
Anything. Nothing. Everything.
I will whisk you away. Yes, you. Into a life you never knew existed. A heaven and a paradise on Earth. My suitcase will be busting with cash, and my eyes burning with zest. We will never be still, m’lady or m’lord, whichever it shall be. The world will be our oyster, and us orchestrators, on its stage.
I promise it. So for now, get on with the usual chores and hold your head high throughout your working day. Take it one day at a time, until I sort something out.
It will happen for us, I guarantee it. Someday is not a kop-out word. It is not code. It is a reality soon upon us, when we shall ski down the sides of pyramids and much, much more....
© Sebastian Worboys MMX
Saturday, 18 September 2010
I’m a good Incubus. There are bad ones. If you don’t know, an Incubus is a mythical creature that visits you in your dreams. I’m a kind of ghost. I did something very wrong during my time on Earth, when I was alive. Something very very wrong. I was unhappy, understand, and I thought nobody cared. Instead of going to someone for help, I decided to take care of things myself, only I couldn’t see or think straight at the time. I was confused and upset and angry.
Now, on the other side, it’s different. I regret what I did. I wish I had stayed alive and lived life. But I chose the wrong path. I let spite and wrath into my heart. To begin with, before I became corrupted and deluded, I was a good person. That’s why I am not in the lowest place, where lost souls are damned forever.
I report to angels, not demons, and to make up for the awful deed I did when I was still just a young man with so many adventures ahead of him, it is now my duty to save others who might be heading along the same dastardly path. When I have rescued 77, I may ascend into the higher place. And, one day, reincarnation.
What I do is hang around in busy shopping malls, schools, and youth clubs, waiting for a troubled teen who looks really sad or depressed. It is easy-peasy for me to spot the ones who are crying out for help. Most of the living don’t see the signs, but they are obvious to me. Once I have picked out a lonely girl or sulking boy, I follow them home, to see where they live. Then, that night, once they are asleep, I will enter their rooms and sit beside their bed, touching their forehead with the palm of my hand.
Please pass along the gist of this message onto some young person who might not know that there are good entities constantly fighting for their well being. If I were to put it in religious terms, I would think of it as the Holy Spirit.
But I am not the Holy Spirit, as such, like in the bible. I was a real human being, who laughed, loved, and lost, just like you.
My name was Sebastian Worboys, and I am a good Ink.
© Sebastian Worboys 2006
(Creative Possibilities, photographer and potter)
Footnote: R.I.P Christopher Percival, who passed this week. Thoughts go out to partner Sharon. Good rugby player: Good man.
Friday, 17 September 2010
DNM Fiction® EDITED BY A.MICHAEL
Erika Babbage is the wife of Errol Babbage, whose story Hippy Ritual featured in the very first paper edition of DNMF. They live in peace together in Cronton, Widnes, and enjoy walking their dogs around Pex Hill Quarry in the evenings.
My husband couldn’t accept that I’d revised the journey the previous night and had the directions printed out in front of his very eyes on A4 paper. It was like it didn’t count for anything, like I was showing him a couple of pages from Gardeners Weekly Magazine. In his narrow mind, the chances that I wouldn’t get lost were akin to him matching all six numbers on the Saturday lotto. In his extremely annoying, narrow mind, I was a certainty, if left to my own devices, to have us reversing out of a one-way dead-end in the middle of nowhere.
Whistling to himself, he positioned the Sat-Nav in the window, obscuring my view. I could drive the 1st 50 miles blindfolded, so why I needed repetitive verbal instructions from the word go off my own driveway, only he knew. To travel anywhere, no matter how close, without it, was inconceivable.
Watching his big clumsy sausage fingers struggle time and time again to input our destination made me want to grab the gadget from him and toss it out through the sunroof (I often fantasised about flinging it out the window when we were in motion). To set the destination details on our way out of the area we have both lived in for umpteen years, or even perhaps wait until we were on the motorway to set it, was, again, inconceivable.
He finally managed it, and after informing me of how long it would take to get there (emphasising that ETA meant estimated time of arrival), he, for the third consecutive outing, suggested I use headphones with the gadget, so as I didn’t miss anything the Sat-Nav woman said. To think that a headphone jack existed on this hi-tech mod-con was ridiculous, but to actually take advantage of it would be absurd.
Besides, his ulterior motive was to assume total control of the radio station. I preferred smooth, easy listening, whereas he still thought he was young enough to be a headbanger, and listened to what I nicknamed ‘Cutthroat FM’. My best friend of late, Radio 4, was, to him, nothing more than ‘old fogies talking’. I let him opt for an over-enthusiastic Jamie Theakston jabbering on about Simon Cowell, just to get us moving, and bit my tongue, as usual, while he put his driving instructor’s cap on, as usual. He simply could not help but commentate on every little aspect of the road, other peoples driving, and, most crucially, my driving.
According to him, I drove too quickly, I drove too close to other cars (emphasising the phrase ‘tailgating’, which means driving too close to other cars), and I took corners with the wrong line. I also – and always – had the heating on too low and the air-conditioning on too high. And, although only he had ever stuck his head out of a moving vehicle to hurl obscene abuse at countless other often-innocent motorists, it was I with the road rage problem.
He forgets the occasion when he launched a blueberry slush puppy at a cyclist, or used his key to scrape the letters K N O B onto someone’s side panel in a car park, after a heated argument. When insisting that I pay due care and attention, over and over like a parrot, he forgets the time when he opened his passenger door into the path of traffic and watched it get taken off by a taxi like a clipped piece of tin. Fortunately, no one was hurt, but of course, my parking was responsible for the accident, not his rotten timing or failure to check his mirror before attempting to get out.
Here’s to another bank holiday excursion then....
After thirty yards, turn left....
© Erika Babbage MMX
Ya what, ha? Productions
Click below for interview with Errol
Thursday, 16 September 2010
Below is what an accomplished bio looks like. If you are an unpublished writer and you have never come into contact with a professional, it can be a lonely existence. No How-To book can rival advice and guidance from the horse’s mouth of someone ahead of you on your path. Coming into contact with other writers is an absolute must. So far, I can count my mentors on one hand. You need to ask questions if you hope to get answers. I recently asked the editor of a magazine if I could write an article for his magazine and he said yes. Simple as.
The route into writing is daunting. Mine was forged by winning a competition, but the bottom rung is fast losing its allure. Someone asked me recently why I didn’t have a book published, in the same way that you might ask someone why they didn’t bring an umbrella out. If only it was like any other job, with vacancies. Best-selling novelist wanted: flexible hours, royalty pension, book signings evenings and weekends....
Small steps though. There’s nothing bigger. Amass whatever credits you can and if you have none then try and get some. My next incentive, for example, is to perform another public reading.
Terry Edge has been a street theatre performer, props maker for the Welsh Opera, sign writer, schools caretaker, soft toys salesman, professional palm-reader, trainer, grasscutter, and table soccer champion. For fourteen years he tutored experimental theatre groups, developing innovative techniques to help better release creativity.
Terry has published several children's/YA novels and non-fiction books. Writing as T D Edge he has also sold SF/Fantasy stories to various magazines, including Beneath Ceaseless Skies and Realms of Fantasy. In 2006, he attended the Odyssey Fantasy Writers' Workshop where his application story won a Gandalf Grant. Disappointed that this did not include a pointy hat and stick-on white beard, he nevertheless had a splendid time and, most importantly for an Englishman, learned how to hug. In 2008, he was happily knackered after attending the master class workshop in