For my Dungeons and Dragons campaign I wrote a sea shanty to introduce a new character, when they entered into the Rusty Anchor Inn, a gentrified sailors pub due to the town becoming more mercantile. However there are still salty sea dogs about, and it goes like this, 100bpm if you singing.
In our running sloop, all the water,
Funneled through our first mates quarters.
Heavens bells were ringing now,
On board the Old Crow — HO
Gun-powder and the load
A sparking fuse to blow the boat,
A skivvy crew had up in arms,
A mutiny on board.
I, out of possible frustration, and an invigorated sense of being creative I started to respond to rejections (those that responded without a firstname.lastname@example.org email) with quickly drafted poems. It was my way or turning the event on its head, turning rejection into an opportunity to create. Raw and often terribly put together. Turning that low point into a new challenge to make something new.
The rejections came at varying degrees, from generic rejection filler texts to personally written. Not making the cut either by being second or tenth, always puts you down. …
Is the UK fairly represented, ever, in a system that disregards millions of votes.
The question that I analysed was, did your vote count? Prefacing this by saying this is not about who to vote for, which team to support, which captain to cheer or tactical voting. My question is about how effective the electoral system is at representing the populations vote democratically in parliament, and how did any one persons vote tally up in that scheme.
The premise did foresee that there would be some drop-off, some small fraction of peoples votes that didn’t add up to the overall…
The sun rose again that day as it always had…
Those in political power within the great city were on fluttering tip-toes to spot any change in the citizens behaviour, after yesterday’s crowning. Many of the citizens had appeared to not be concerned about the rumours that were circulating, about the missing prince and that he had died that day; but not from the crowning. The vast amount of spiritual homages that were sacrificed along with the dupe prince had been of some concern among the populous.
“I don’t know why there had to be so many homages at the…
It does seem like we are unable to attract the best and the brightest to our parliaments. People come into the job far estranged from the country and the international politics of the world, seem to luxuriously wander in and play out roles of a caretaker. What we see in the run up to elections is not only what we don't get, but also a lacking scope of genuine human morality, our pressure points for concern and interest are being represented by the unconcerned.
I would in one instance petition, like so many other public services have become, to outsource…
Luff Farm was a small cottage just outside the village of Avon Lee, renovated from a farm hands house in the earlier century, it now was the home of Christine Penner. The outside of the house at this time of year was covered half in red ivy and the other in tangling greenery of firs. It surrounded itself in an orchard of tall pines. Within the front garden was a pebbled pathway to the door and a few rockeries of flowers outside with an apple tree on a small mound surrounded in wood chips. A small fish pond lay at…
A short, horrendous story that appeared when I tapped my suggested words for ages: which is supposed to display what I intend to write with some accuracy. It tends to get caught in loops though, here goes.
I have attached the invoice for your kind perusal as I am currently working on it as I am currently working on it so I am sending it to the inhabitants of the small space under some partially destroyed concrete and a copy of my old computer and the email links to a few of the Digital Experience Team you will be responsible…
Darkness flickers, dodging the light of the flaming tower that beckons all and bathing everything in its light. The candle stroked the air gently in the room, and for a time, it was all that moved. It was dingy and full of books, leafs of sterile smelling paper and stacks of photographs, a place of knowledge and mystery. A few study desks squared the room and faced each other in pairs, most tidy but for one.
Muffled footsteps patted against the closed door and around the candle lit walls, they stopped and the door opened. Wandering in came the student who…
The sunset was rhubarb coloured, the dark red setting sun on the rich green hued ocean that merged in the middle to some melting moments. Growing across one ocean and receding from here, the sugar which was stirred around the planet.
After the glaze set from the sun, everything began to cool, everything put to rest. One such person who was resting, out in a hammock on a beach, on some tiny island was Eirran. A short, brown haired women with a hat made from straw and a local flower popped in it, to set it off.
She wore Ragged clothes that…
“Can you do that though?” Haven said while sitting at the table.
“Yeah, you just smash then flip,” Gambee replied.
“Oh right, but that doesn’t mean I need to upgrade my talents does it?” questioned Haven.
“Yeah it does ya sprocket,” Gambee snapped, feeling penance for training Haven.
“Oy,” objected Haven.
“Ha, you’ve got no chance,” laughed Gambee.
“Boom, next room,” Gambee tapped on her phone.
“Nah your all right,” Haven swiped and closed the game.
“Ha, figures,” Gambee proclaimed, always up for another round.
“Got a missed text from you… Oy,” Haven looked at a picture of themselves looking…