Steel Icarus
ersatz maven
So who the fuck are you, friend?
The Urban Writing Thread
- Thread starter ShiftyBagLady
- Start date
So who the fuck are you, friend?
miss minnie
Well-Known Member
Some bizarre spammer who does this random post thing all over forums and has a website that links to an online drugs website.
frogwoman
No amount of cajolery...
This is from another story I'm doing, nothing to do with what I wrote about Waheedah etc.
One of the most horrific cases he’d ever seen.
You can say those lines. You can read them in a newspaper or watch them on whatever shitty sub-standard TV drama you go home and watch to get away from the pathetic reality of your life. You can read them in some book about troubled chief policemen drinking on the job with all the soap-opera bullshit about exes and wives and kiddies the author’s written down to make the book “interesting”.
Didn’t change it. Didn’t change how it jumped out behind his eyes when he was trying to sleep or reading a newspaper or sitting in his garden, the modest little garden he’d just bought with his wife – they were going to grow vegetables and things – Christ, what a joke, imagine growing vegetables now. How could you grow vegetables after this. Knowing that this happened. How could you get up and go to the shops and go to work and on holiday and do normal things that normal people do.
He’d been signed off sick for two weeks, two weeks which felt like a lifetime as every day blended into each other, with the same images pounding his brain, unable now to feel any more emotion, just a dull ache, like everything was grey and dull. Until once or twice a day he would think about the family, and then it would be like someone had punched him again.
Get a grip, he told himself, as he wandered, shaking, to the phone, taking an age to put one foot after another although it was simply down the passage. His wife was at work, and not for the first time he felt shame, he hated himself, because Goddamn it, even in this politically-correct world, if a man could not provide for his family, then what was he? He should be able to protect her.
Protect her ... and then the image came back into his head, but this time it wasn’t her, it was his wife and then his daughter.
Daddy had a shock at work. Daddy needs to be left alone for now – and maybe it was right, maybe he did need to be left alone, because he couldn’t see or touch his daughter without crying. He was a failure of a man. A total fucking failure, couldn’t bear to look at his daughter and couldn’t be there to protect her.
A month, that was what they said. A month of recovery and then back to normal again. At the time he hadn’t been in a position to argue, not that he knew what he’d be arguing against anyway.
What was he without the Job? He couldn’t stay like this. Going back to work was a prospect that sickened him but he couldn’t sit around the house, becoming a ghost, a zombie. Benefits weren’t for people like him – he was too strong, and it was shameful. He rested his hand on the telephone, fingers barely grasping it. Of course, he would have to return to work sooner or later; it was inevitable.
He saw once again her face – and knew at that moment what he had to do. Because the person who had done this was still out there, and he suddenly felt such intense rage and hatred, a rage that ate away at his stomach, made him clench the phone in both hands and grip it in front of him. He dialled the number and almost mechanically asked to speak to the superintendent about the decision that would get him out of here, of this. Of course, the superintendent said – once the psychiatric assessment had been carried out. Once they looked at you and examined you and pulled every aspect of your life apart.
“I would like to return to the Sabeen al-Hirani case,” he said, pausing between each syllable. “I would like to come back to work at the earliest possible opportunity.”
There’s a note of concern in the superintendent’s voice. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he says. “Not under the circumstances of your illness. The hospital recommended another six weeks.”
Oh, it was “for his own good”, was it. He didn’t put it in those words, but he may well have done. Two months off work, with nothing to do but sit and think about it. It might well be a year. Five years. The anti-depressents numbed his thinking so one day went into the next but they didn’t stop him thinking about the utter futility of it all.
“Another six weeks?” he repeated faintly. “I thought it was until the end of the month.” Perhaps it was the right decision. After all, he could not sleep without seeing her. Could not sleep at all.
“And we’ll recommend you be reassigned to patrol duties,” his boss said. Perhaps that was right. Drunken chav scum pissing up their dole money on a Saturday night, except now he couldn’t bear, couldn’t bring himself to be angry at them. It was all so trivial. An old lady had her door smashed. So fucking what.
“I don’t want patrol duties.” His voice was brittle. “I want to find out who did this.”
One of the most horrific cases he’d ever seen.
You can say those lines. You can read them in a newspaper or watch them on whatever shitty sub-standard TV drama you go home and watch to get away from the pathetic reality of your life. You can read them in some book about troubled chief policemen drinking on the job with all the soap-opera bullshit about exes and wives and kiddies the author’s written down to make the book “interesting”.
Didn’t change it. Didn’t change how it jumped out behind his eyes when he was trying to sleep or reading a newspaper or sitting in his garden, the modest little garden he’d just bought with his wife – they were going to grow vegetables and things – Christ, what a joke, imagine growing vegetables now. How could you grow vegetables after this. Knowing that this happened. How could you get up and go to the shops and go to work and on holiday and do normal things that normal people do.
He’d been signed off sick for two weeks, two weeks which felt like a lifetime as every day blended into each other, with the same images pounding his brain, unable now to feel any more emotion, just a dull ache, like everything was grey and dull. Until once or twice a day he would think about the family, and then it would be like someone had punched him again.
Get a grip, he told himself, as he wandered, shaking, to the phone, taking an age to put one foot after another although it was simply down the passage. His wife was at work, and not for the first time he felt shame, he hated himself, because Goddamn it, even in this politically-correct world, if a man could not provide for his family, then what was he? He should be able to protect her.
Protect her ... and then the image came back into his head, but this time it wasn’t her, it was his wife and then his daughter.
Daddy had a shock at work. Daddy needs to be left alone for now – and maybe it was right, maybe he did need to be left alone, because he couldn’t see or touch his daughter without crying. He was a failure of a man. A total fucking failure, couldn’t bear to look at his daughter and couldn’t be there to protect her.
A month, that was what they said. A month of recovery and then back to normal again. At the time he hadn’t been in a position to argue, not that he knew what he’d be arguing against anyway.
What was he without the Job? He couldn’t stay like this. Going back to work was a prospect that sickened him but he couldn’t sit around the house, becoming a ghost, a zombie. Benefits weren’t for people like him – he was too strong, and it was shameful. He rested his hand on the telephone, fingers barely grasping it. Of course, he would have to return to work sooner or later; it was inevitable.
He saw once again her face – and knew at that moment what he had to do. Because the person who had done this was still out there, and he suddenly felt such intense rage and hatred, a rage that ate away at his stomach, made him clench the phone in both hands and grip it in front of him. He dialled the number and almost mechanically asked to speak to the superintendent about the decision that would get him out of here, of this. Of course, the superintendent said – once the psychiatric assessment had been carried out. Once they looked at you and examined you and pulled every aspect of your life apart.
“I would like to return to the Sabeen al-Hirani case,” he said, pausing between each syllable. “I would like to come back to work at the earliest possible opportunity.”
There’s a note of concern in the superintendent’s voice. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he says. “Not under the circumstances of your illness. The hospital recommended another six weeks.”
Oh, it was “for his own good”, was it. He didn’t put it in those words, but he may well have done. Two months off work, with nothing to do but sit and think about it. It might well be a year. Five years. The anti-depressents numbed his thinking so one day went into the next but they didn’t stop him thinking about the utter futility of it all.
“Another six weeks?” he repeated faintly. “I thought it was until the end of the month.” Perhaps it was the right decision. After all, he could not sleep without seeing her. Could not sleep at all.
“And we’ll recommend you be reassigned to patrol duties,” his boss said. Perhaps that was right. Drunken chav scum pissing up their dole money on a Saturday night, except now he couldn’t bear, couldn’t bring himself to be angry at them. It was all so trivial. An old lady had her door smashed. So fucking what.
“I don’t want patrol duties.” His voice was brittle. “I want to find out who did this.”
Hey y'all. I'm looking for some input on a writing project.
It's a stage play called Amphetamine, and it is based on my experiences in Brixton in the 90s. I've just put the first act up on a blog. The second act is in progress and I'll be putting it up in installments.
I would truly appreciate any kind of feedback.
It's a stage play called Amphetamine, and it is based on my experiences in Brixton in the 90s. I've just put the first act up on a blog. The second act is in progress and I'll be putting it up in installments.
I would truly appreciate any kind of feedback.
Bakunin
I am Noodle's bitch.
Another article published, this time on the spy Mata Hari in the online magazine at www.crimemagazine.com.
SpookyFrank
A cheap source of teeth for aquarium gravel
I've started another book but am currently unable to post any extracts from it as my laptop and I find ourselves itself on opposite sides of a rather bitter family dispute. In fact for all I know the laptop is already amongst the gods in the Better Place, an unsuspecting sacrifice to the elemental force that is an angry mother in law. If the book still exists its opening moves are partially culled from one of my u75 contest entries, albeit with some of the surrealism trimmed back a bit.
The outline of the story has been rattling around my head for a while, lacking only a format in which to write it. I finally decided on twelve chapters with each of my four protagonists having three turns to tell a bit of the story. One character is writing his (incredibly pompous and self-satisfied) autobiography, the second we hear from via an adolescent diary, the third via posthumously published magazine interviews and the fourth in letters to her daughter. It's going to be a fucking nightmare to write. Especially without my laptop.
The whole thing finally coalesced as a realistic project only once I took the difficult but important decision not to give my characters superpowers after all.
The outline of the story has been rattling around my head for a while, lacking only a format in which to write it. I finally decided on twelve chapters with each of my four protagonists having three turns to tell a bit of the story. One character is writing his (incredibly pompous and self-satisfied) autobiography, the second we hear from via an adolescent diary, the third via posthumously published magazine interviews and the fourth in letters to her daughter. It's going to be a fucking nightmare to write. Especially without my laptop.
The whole thing finally coalesced as a realistic project only once I took the difficult but important decision not to give my characters superpowers after all.
Bakunin
I am Noodle's bitch.
Greetings, my little chickadees, for once again I have made it into Crime Magazine with a potted biography of the life and career of the once-notorious 'Lambeth Poisoner', Dr. Thomas Neill Cream, who liked administering strychnine to people for his own amusement.
'Tis here, for your edification, entertainment and information:
http://www.crimemagazine.com/lambeth-poisoner
'Tis here, for your edification, entertainment and information:
http://www.crimemagazine.com/lambeth-poisoner
ShiftyBagLady
Thinks she is a flower to be looked at
That's cool Bakunin, congrats 
frogwoman
No amount of cajolery...
I'll read it.
mauvais
on reddit or something
Please can this be electro-shocked back into life, or at least someone gift me with a theme to work with? Some ponce said hell is other people; well it isn't, it's the countryside, and I'm stuck there with only my murderous thoughts and a smartphone notepad for company.
Clair De Lune
Apocalypse cocktails
How about inadequacy? I reckon we could all write something on that 
DotCommunist
So many particulars. So many questions.
I'm tackling NanoWriMo this year. Should be a laff at least. So the writing from myself will be for that
frogwoman
No amount of cajolery...
I've decided to write a murder mystery set in a post revolutionary britain. I've been wanting to write something like this for a while - makes a change from my usual really dark stuff ...
For three years now it was the fear that gripped him, that took hold of him whenever he went to sleep and rarely, if ever relaxed its grip. That was the worst part of it. The fear. It wasn’t like the old days, when there was constant worrying about bills to pay, whether you could heat your house or whether you could eat. Things had changed. The sky wasn’t going to fall in if you didn’t go to work or if you earned too much or too little or if you didn’t turn up to your appointments on time. The Workers’ Party had made sure of that. He had a generous pension, as fitted someone who’d done so many services for the class. Made so many sacrifices in the line of duty. A nice house in a good neighbourhood – although these days, it was hard to tell the difference. They were all good.
But all that time spent worrying would still have been time taken away from thinking about what happened on that day three years ago. He’d have had something else to think about, right, even if it was shit. The back of his mind would have filled up with more pressing, urgent matters. They had still kept his job open in the hope that he would come back to work. Three years on, after he had stormed out, a combination of lack of sleep and a burgeoning alcohol problem, saying, I can’t do this any more, Comrade Kelly! It’s killing me!
Comrade Glen Harper had always thought that the “Combined People’s Revolutionary Force for Law and Order”, as it had been rebranded by the current government, was a somewhat contradictory title, although he rarely expressed such contentious ideas, unless perhaps drunk on his birthday. It was one of the things about his former job that he had found wryly amusing, although he kept such views to himself; concentrated on doing his job, as he always had, until he had discovered that he was no longer able to put the fear aside after a particularly traumatic case.
His mobile phone buzzed on his desk. He still kept the same model he had had since well before the Workers’ Party had come to power, and was unwilling to apply for the free upgrade for public services personnel the council kept sending him reminders for in the post. Like it or not, the dread hand of the bourgeoisie had somehow made things look better.
“Hello?” he said.
“Comrade Harper,” came the gruff response, in less than dulcet Irish tones. “I wish to see you at 9am tomorrow morning in my office. We need you back at work.”
For three years now it was the fear that gripped him, that took hold of him whenever he went to sleep and rarely, if ever relaxed its grip. That was the worst part of it. The fear. It wasn’t like the old days, when there was constant worrying about bills to pay, whether you could heat your house or whether you could eat. Things had changed. The sky wasn’t going to fall in if you didn’t go to work or if you earned too much or too little or if you didn’t turn up to your appointments on time. The Workers’ Party had made sure of that. He had a generous pension, as fitted someone who’d done so many services for the class. Made so many sacrifices in the line of duty. A nice house in a good neighbourhood – although these days, it was hard to tell the difference. They were all good.
But all that time spent worrying would still have been time taken away from thinking about what happened on that day three years ago. He’d have had something else to think about, right, even if it was shit. The back of his mind would have filled up with more pressing, urgent matters. They had still kept his job open in the hope that he would come back to work. Three years on, after he had stormed out, a combination of lack of sleep and a burgeoning alcohol problem, saying, I can’t do this any more, Comrade Kelly! It’s killing me!
Comrade Glen Harper had always thought that the “Combined People’s Revolutionary Force for Law and Order”, as it had been rebranded by the current government, was a somewhat contradictory title, although he rarely expressed such contentious ideas, unless perhaps drunk on his birthday. It was one of the things about his former job that he had found wryly amusing, although he kept such views to himself; concentrated on doing his job, as he always had, until he had discovered that he was no longer able to put the fear aside after a particularly traumatic case.
His mobile phone buzzed on his desk. He still kept the same model he had had since well before the Workers’ Party had come to power, and was unwilling to apply for the free upgrade for public services personnel the council kept sending him reminders for in the post. Like it or not, the dread hand of the bourgeoisie had somehow made things look better.
“Hello?” he said.
“Comrade Harper,” came the gruff response, in less than dulcet Irish tones. “I wish to see you at 9am tomorrow morning in my office. We need you back at work.”
miss giggles
an unknown quantity...
I started a blog. I'd really appreciate your feedback. It's here
http://thepeopleyoudontsee.blogspot.com
http://thepeopleyoudontsee.blogspot.com
Bakunin
I am Noodle's bitch.
I've just secured my first job as a full-time freelance writer. 'Historic Lotus' magazine have accepted my pitch for an article on the first race to be won in a Lotus (a Lotus 8 driven by privateer John Coombs at the Davidstow Circuit in August 1954). Just waiting now for a word count and permission to use a photo of that very car that, conveniently for me, is up on the 'Historic Lotus' website. It's an unpaid job, but it's another credit for my CV and only my second commissioned job on motorsport.
Yay me, methinks.
Yay me, methinks.
frogwoman
No amount of cajolery...
I read some of this and thought it was very good.
Kate Hillier
Member
Have I missed this? good idea btw. Hi everybody!
Bakunin
I am Noodle's bitch.
The article for Historic Lotus Magazine is in the Spring issue which should be up on the website pretty soon. I've also had another two pieces accepted for Crime Magazine on the Japanese mass murderer Sadamichi Hirasawa and John Lee, the famed 'man they couldn't hang.'
I'm currently working on a piece about Herbert Rowse Armstrong, the only solicitor in English legal history to be hanged for murder after he poisoned his wife with arsenic. Once that's out of the way, I'm considering starting work on a couple of crime articles of local interest and perhaps one on Manfred von Richthofen, history's most famous fighter pilot.
E/A: The Hirasawa article is now online at http://www.crimemagazine.com/mass-murder-teigin-bank
I'm currently working on a piece about Herbert Rowse Armstrong, the only solicitor in English legal history to be hanged for murder after he poisoned his wife with arsenic. Once that's out of the way, I'm considering starting work on a couple of crime articles of local interest and perhaps one on Manfred von Richthofen, history's most famous fighter pilot.
E/A: The Hirasawa article is now online at http://www.crimemagazine.com/mass-murder-teigin-bank
Bakunin
I am Noodle's bitch.
Another article virtually completed for the next issue of Historic Lotus (about Herbert MacKay-Fraser, the first driver to die while driving for the factory team). The next one will be written on spec and sent to Flypast magazine about Arthur Taylor (the only Cornish pilot in the Royal Flying Corps to achieve 'ace' status in WWI. You need five confirmed kills to be considered an 'ace' and Taylor had seven confirmed before he himself was shot down and killed).
After that there'll be one I'll offer to 'Cornish Story' magazine about Patrick 'Harry' Glasson (one of the very few Cornishmen to have fought with the International Brigades and killed during the Brunete offensive in July 1937). Then there'll be one on some of the 1950's Ferrari drivers (five drivers known collectively as the 'Ferrari Primavera') for a writing contest and after that I'll probably start on another WWI flying article about the first major use of uncontested air power. I'm also considering self-publishing a book (probably on Amazon or somewhere) on Cornwall's secret military past from WWI to the present day, and fit that in around anything else that comes to mind.
So, work (and plenty of it) beckons. I'll probably be glad of a few days rest when I pootle across the Channel on my annual pilgrimage to the temple of speed you mortals know merely as Le Mans (I leave the UK on the 8th of June and come back on the 19th).
Nice to keep busy though.
E2A: Researching the article on Arthur Taylor has given me an idea for a piece on the aces in general and especially on exploding the myth that was built up around them. Nothing disrespectful or disparaging, but certainly something that might well ruffle feathers among those more inclined to accept the traditional perceived wisdom concerning early fighter aces. And I already have enough information available to start looking very closely at the whole idea of 'aces' in general.
After that there'll be one I'll offer to 'Cornish Story' magazine about Patrick 'Harry' Glasson (one of the very few Cornishmen to have fought with the International Brigades and killed during the Brunete offensive in July 1937). Then there'll be one on some of the 1950's Ferrari drivers (five drivers known collectively as the 'Ferrari Primavera') for a writing contest and after that I'll probably start on another WWI flying article about the first major use of uncontested air power. I'm also considering self-publishing a book (probably on Amazon or somewhere) on Cornwall's secret military past from WWI to the present day, and fit that in around anything else that comes to mind.
So, work (and plenty of it) beckons. I'll probably be glad of a few days rest when I pootle across the Channel on my annual pilgrimage to the temple of speed you mortals know merely as Le Mans (I leave the UK on the 8th of June and come back on the 19th).
Nice to keep busy though.
E2A: Researching the article on Arthur Taylor has given me an idea for a piece on the aces in general and especially on exploding the myth that was built up around them. Nothing disrespectful or disparaging, but certainly something that might well ruffle feathers among those more inclined to accept the traditional perceived wisdom concerning early fighter aces. And I already have enough information available to start looking very closely at the whole idea of 'aces' in general.
frogwoman
No amount of cajolery...
i just wrote this:
Yet again that initial disgust he had felt – it's just not right, is it? Knocked him for six. At least three – no, four people were dead. The latest death was his responsibility, and his alone. Crying seemed inappropriate, vulgar even, given the circumstances in which Matty had died. Nonetheless, thinking of his friend made his eyes sting.
So many lives ruined, so many lives, and he couldn't bring himself to hate these people and what they'd done.
“By any means necessary, remember,” Murphy said, bringing his face very close to Harper's. “The revolution must be defended by any means necessary, comrade. I'm sure you understand that.”
“The world could never find out what happened,” Murphy said. “It would have been the end of our Party. None of this would have been possible.” He gestured around the room. “Our actions made this possible.”
“By murdering people?” Harper said. “Murdering people and covering up a massacre?”
“Nobody could ever find out,” Murphy said. “And nobody will ever find out. The memory of what happened that day is gone from the face of the earth. Imagine if it had got out, right after the war. Do you think that our class would have accepted living under the rule of people who had committed such terrible crimes? We couldn't let it happen. Because if it had got out things would be much worse. We would have had to do things to destroy the memory.”
He sucked in a breath. “We have freedom. The Defeated can whine on about the restoration of capitalism if they so choose. They can go into the Bourgeois Museum and sit on furniture they once owned and talk openly about what they'd like back. Or if you think we're not tough enough on them, you can say that too. You think that that would be possible if the entire population thought that we were a bunch of murderers? We'd have no legitimacy.”
For a moment Murphy looked terrified, and honestly, Harper pitied him.
“Everything we have, we have because comrades were wise enough to keep things quiet,” Murphy said. “There are no shortage of people who will use what happened there to destroy us. And we can't afford to lose what we have. Sometimes you have to choose the lesser of two evils, Glen.”
On some level Murphy's views made sense. Harper had never thought he would have this much sympathy for a Workers' Security man who had killed one of his best friends, murdered a schoolteacher and sent thugs to beat up an innocent woman. And was about to kill him.
Warner, though. The biggest betrayal; he could understand Murphy and his old soldiers, perhaps even, on some level, sympathise with him. But Warner? His stomach lurched when he thought of the man. He had trusted him; cared about him; all this time, he'd been serving two masters. He had sold out his comrades. It hurt, what Warner had done. It hurt.
Yet again that initial disgust he had felt – it's just not right, is it? Knocked him for six. At least three – no, four people were dead. The latest death was his responsibility, and his alone. Crying seemed inappropriate, vulgar even, given the circumstances in which Matty had died. Nonetheless, thinking of his friend made his eyes sting.
So many lives ruined, so many lives, and he couldn't bring himself to hate these people and what they'd done.
“By any means necessary, remember,” Murphy said, bringing his face very close to Harper's. “The revolution must be defended by any means necessary, comrade. I'm sure you understand that.”
“The world could never find out what happened,” Murphy said. “It would have been the end of our Party. None of this would have been possible.” He gestured around the room. “Our actions made this possible.”
“By murdering people?” Harper said. “Murdering people and covering up a massacre?”
“Nobody could ever find out,” Murphy said. “And nobody will ever find out. The memory of what happened that day is gone from the face of the earth. Imagine if it had got out, right after the war. Do you think that our class would have accepted living under the rule of people who had committed such terrible crimes? We couldn't let it happen. Because if it had got out things would be much worse. We would have had to do things to destroy the memory.”
He sucked in a breath. “We have freedom. The Defeated can whine on about the restoration of capitalism if they so choose. They can go into the Bourgeois Museum and sit on furniture they once owned and talk openly about what they'd like back. Or if you think we're not tough enough on them, you can say that too. You think that that would be possible if the entire population thought that we were a bunch of murderers? We'd have no legitimacy.”
For a moment Murphy looked terrified, and honestly, Harper pitied him.
“Everything we have, we have because comrades were wise enough to keep things quiet,” Murphy said. “There are no shortage of people who will use what happened there to destroy us. And we can't afford to lose what we have. Sometimes you have to choose the lesser of two evils, Glen.”
On some level Murphy's views made sense. Harper had never thought he would have this much sympathy for a Workers' Security man who had killed one of his best friends, murdered a schoolteacher and sent thugs to beat up an innocent woman. And was about to kill him.
Warner, though. The biggest betrayal; he could understand Murphy and his old soldiers, perhaps even, on some level, sympathise with him. But Warner? His stomach lurched when he thought of the man. He had trusted him; cared about him; all this time, he'd been serving two masters. He had sold out his comrades. It hurt, what Warner had done. It hurt.
I'm writing my first book and just wanted to say it is fucking tough to write a book. I've written about 50'000 words and it's starting to come together and now the plan I made is ridiculous, and plus nothing has even happened and I don't think I'd read this far in a book with a bunch of unsympathetic people doing nothing but the characters are starting to grow on me and I like dipping into their world. I've met a couple of people over my life who were writing but couldn't finish their books and I'm beginning to appreciate it now I think because it fucking drains you making these people and making them do stuff, specially when you decide that they are pricks lol
Bakunin
I am Noodle's bitch.
I now have one editor wanting a piece on my forthcoming trip to Le Mans (on spec), I've queried half a dozen others about Le Mans-related articles and I'm waiting to hear back from another true crime website (www.mafiatoday.com) about writing for them regularly.
I've also reworked and submitted three of my old short stories to various magazines and I'm waiting to hear back from them. Not holding out massive hopes on these, but as they've been sat on my computer and I'll be replacing this one on Tuesday I might as well put them out and see if anyone's interested.
I've also reworked and submitted three of my old short stories to various magazines and I'm waiting to hear back from them. Not holding out massive hopes on these, but as they've been sat on my computer and I'll be replacing this one on Tuesday I might as well put them out and see if anyone's interested.
PlaidDragon
We don't need money to have a good time
Just knocked out the first chapter of a book I've been thinking about for a while. Not very sure about it, but if anyone wouldn't mind critiquing it drop us a PM.
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