nd the synthesised beats of Jean Michel Jarre. I like trance artists such as Tiesto, Paul Van Dyke, Delerium and the likes. 
Music plays a huge part in my writing. It helps to enhance moods that I'm trying to create, hence why I own music to suit every mood - angry, mellow, sad, happy. And it helps to inspire.
o life. Out of nowhere, and to be honest it's taken me by surprise and completely altered future writing plans. 
One sign that his assailant had been here was the phone that he approached. The receiver hung on its cable, swaying to and fro from the orange SOS box. A hunger lurched in him. He had been close to catching the man! He had been here, making the call that warned of the girl's death.
And the pumpkin, in light, leaning up against my sister's washing machine (Just to give you an idea how big it truly is)
mostly remembered for his writing in the macabre, works that include titles such as `The Pit and the Pendulum`, and `The Murders in the Rue Morgue`. His poetry was just as dark, with pieces such as `The Raven`, as quoted, and `A Dream Within a Dream.` 
My love was like that. Stubborn. She had the kind of mind that when it was set, it was set in concrete. There was no dislodging it or dissuading it. It was made and it was final.
No one could have prevented what happened.
As I walked along the shores I pondered the question. My bare feet sunk deep into the wet sand every time they trod. I used to like the feeling. We both had spent hours laughing at the feel of the sand as it pushed between our toes. Now it was just me, and the sand was nothing but irritating.
I had often found inspiration as I walked along these shores. Those inspirations soon found themselves turning to words as I created stories of fiction. Sometimes I even cut our walks short so that I could go home and write. My love never complained. She supported me. She understood when I needed to shut myself away, when I needed to be alone for hours on end, hours that often turned to days.
She had always accepted this, and I loved her all the more for it. But did I ever tell her? I was sure that I had, on many occasions, but now I wonder whether it had been enough. I didn’t pay her as much attention as she needed, and I didn’t realise this until it was too late. The moment I walked into that room I knew. I knew what she had done and what had happened.
My world crumbled the instant my eyes fell upon the sight of her. She had been lying there a while, with me completely unaware as I worked in the other room. I had no idea. She had given me no clues, had shown no indication that this was what she intended to do. But then even if she had, would I have picked up on them? I was so consumed in my world of fiction that everything else was just a blur in my mind. She could have been screaming for help at the top of her voice, but I heard not a whisper of her torment.
On the surf tormented shores, I crouched. I watched the surf as it rolled in over the sands, reaching just in front of me before being swept back. I inhaled the saltiness in the air and listened to the hiss of the sand as the surf washed over it.
I had counted just six tablets from a bottle originally containing twenty that day, and my heart leapt with dismay as I realised where the other fourteen had gone. She had swallowed them. One tablet was enough to ensure you experienced a restful, uninterrupted nights sleep. Fourteen ensured you never woke. My love had wanted a restful peace that she never wanted to wake from. She wanted to live forever in her dream.
She was dead.
Reaching down, my fingers submerged themselves beneath the sand, each grain giving way to my presence. Curling my hand, I cupped a handful and lifted it from the shores, but no matter how tight I held them, I couldn’t stop the grains from falling through. It reminded me of ho
w I had let my love slip through my fingers with such ease. She could have been helped, she could still be alive, but the trickling sands continued to scream of my incompetence and my failure towards her.
As I watched the last of the grains fall back to the sands I couldn’t help but weep.
I've just missed my 1 year anniversary of blogging!
It is he who manages to persuade to people of England not to fight each other, but to unite as a country and stand against the French - which they do and succeed. It is in this battle that Robin finally kills Godfrey, saving Maid Marion in the process. But Prince John is outraged when the people start to hail Robin and not him, thus, in a fit of rage, he classes Robin as an outlaw.
he battle itself, but Robin's flight against Godfrey. However, you can't help but be aware of the sparseness of everything around you as the battle to save England supposedly rages on. .jpg)
brought a book with them, we chose one, and then wrote a short piece inspired by the front cover, regardless of what the actual book was about. 
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I was lucky enough to have a whole week of holiday last week. I spent a week in the sunny West Country known as Devon – even though it was a cheap week because my folks live out there – but none-the-less. We done so much stuff that I can hardly remember any of it, but one thing that did stick in my mind was our drive through Dartmoor. I’m one of those strange people who prefers and appreciates the countryside more than the beach, and for those who are like me I’m sure you’d agree that Dartmoor is a beautiful place..jpg)
"Oops!" As last words go it's not inspirational, but it is apt as I've just pushed the wrong button.
Now, when someone presents to you a `Big Red Button` and says to you that you mustn't - no matter what - push it, something in the mind triggers, and all you want to do is put your finger on it and press. 
man was called Iydalnis Basalt, and instantly the Seer saw his hero within, despite the sneers from his neighbours and rumours of his stubbornness and laziness. He tried to persuade Iydalnis that he had a destiny to fulfill, but all Iydalnis wanted to do was lay in the sun. Eventually the Seer had to resort to burning his home down on a quest to get Iydalnis into action, and it worked.
had ever seen. Eventually he called it Basalt stone, and that once heated, to get it into action, the lazy characteristics with which Iydalnis possessed would come forth. When placed on the body in certain areas, these heated up characteristics would transfer through the skin, and were found to be very calming and therapeutic - and before long these hot stones became famous throughout the world for their fantastic and detoxing relaxation methods.
et just one more day at least. And then they started dropping like flies, like their power cords were suddenly being ripped from them without prior warning.
under the pressure of his weight.
The time has finally come, after the years spent tenderly polishing Gorthian, that a synopsis is needed. I hate synopsis writing, and I get the strange impression that so does everyone else. Everywhere I turn, every blog I read, I'm hearing the same complaints.
Have a good weekend everyone . . .
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