Father. New husband. Wannabe writer.
Why I HATE Fanfiction
For a lot of us, the Vocal+ fiction awards represented one of the biggest competitions we have taken part in. Myself, I didn't even make it to the second stage. That may be part of the reason why I've stepped away from fiction for a little break.
My favourite heroes and villains - pt1
What makes a watchable hero? What makes a compelling villain? Compelling writing is an important part, possibly the most important. But in the mediums of film and TV, you have the added factor of the actor. Previous roles can form bias, and whether it is film or TV, for me, plays a huge part.
Nothing good ever happens after 2am
Sean woke to the sound of banging at his door. He peered at the clock next to his bed, and it read 2:32am. He wondered who on earth could possibly be banging such a racket at this ridiculous hour. As he raised himself to a seated position and swung his legs off the edge of his bed, he pondered the reason for this unwelcome intrusion into his sleep. No-one ever calls with good news at a time like this. He yawned and scratched the back of his head until the echoing bang started again.
My first concert after lockdown
Thursday 13th February 2020: Before the first wave swept across the UK, I managed to fit a trip across to Manchester for a concert. I got to see Bowling for Soup for the 3rd time, supported by Simple Plan. It was a good gig, and getting back to Manchester after a year or so away was very enjoyable. My brother and I have been to numerous musical events, both as spectators and staff, and will be planning to go to many more in the future.
The sun was just about to set as he rode towards the settlement. It had been a long ride for both him and his horse and they both could do with the rest. He paused at the treeline and looked down on the 40 or so wooden cabins neatly arranged with a stream cutting across the the northern side of the clearing.
It's good to talk
It's good to talk A man sits uncomfortably on a plastic chair in a village hall. It's a decent sized space, and the 8 chairs look lost and tiny in the setting. Our man is in his 40's, not heavily built but with large, flat hands and a strength to his appearance that screams his profession as physical labour. The chill of the winter evening has pervaded the hall and he sits still in a faded green parka, unzipped but still providing warmth. He is looking down towards his hands, that twist and grip within each other. He knew he would have to do this but now the moment was upon him he felt a nervousness different from any he had previously experienced. He took a deep breath, lifted his head to meet the eyes of the man in the cardigan across from him and began to speak.
With less people around, nature had began to flourish again. As he slowly trudged through something pretty close to what humans believed paradise looked like, the irony was not lost on him. Mankind had always believed that a paradise awaited the righteous after death, maybe we just got te wrong idea of who, and just how many, had to die. Shaking his head, he dismissed the notion. Those that remained could never be described as righteous, not by any standard.