An extract from a crime novella

Hi there. As you can tell, I am increasing chaotic in my prose. Instead of submitting full entries, I choose to select the most strange and disorganised of the stories at my disposal. This piece was a very detailed but very underwhelming crime novel set in the Victorian era that I started four years ago so not only is the prose unsatisfactory but the major plot twist that I had planned was completely predictable. However, after editing a few of the later passages, I found I took a liking to one of the characters who is called Edgard Denton, (he is the main voice of the extract.) This particular part entails of when he is discussing his companion, (the Professor,) and the work that he is involved in. It mentions Damia, the Professor’s estranged wife and… That is all the context I can provide at this moment in time. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. It is rather peculiar.



I suppose there is an obscure thrill, an adrenaline that rushes through your very being and takes your obstructed mind in due course. A cycle of confusion and distress that seems so attractive behind its plaster facade. I replicated this particular emotion to soldiers charging the battlefield, their psychological complexes limiting them to animalistic cries of primeval instinct. The urge to survive and go onwards, a strange rush that you could never grasp the reason for. Solving a crime is like finding the answer to a particularly vexing puzzle. You find pride and joy in yourself at its completition but at the same time, relief that it is over and done with. Your efforts weren’t for nothing. A rewarding sensation. Obviously, it must be taken into consideration of the grisly contents of the murder itself, or murders in Mr Renfield’s case. In more general sense, any crime in which a victim is found dead and cold. The sense of solving a minor conundrum was not a finger nail close to the horrific reality. No, the metallic stench of blood, the crunching of bones, the tearing of gentle skin; these sights before your very eyes can shake your own sense of existence, your own morality.

To your very core, it causes repulsion, hysteria and, in some cases, even macabre delight. Humans have always had a fascination with death, it is our nature, we enjoy considering what lies beyond life, murder being just a morbid curiosity people either implement or ponder upon in order to sate their own minds. Most who thumbs through idle papers, eyes scanning the poised typeface, have no idea actuality of the matter before them. Truly many cannot stomach it, honestly even I had trouble adjusting when I was first presented with a vicious scene involving a mangled corpse, (to be more matter of fact, I found myself physically ill after witnessing it.) But like a soldier caught in the raucousness of the conflict, the aftermath can take its toll upon you. A veteran has his terrors and, on the side, so does a detective. By God, I shudder to think upon how many cadavers has my Professor laid his eyes upon? Surely, it wasn’t befitting for his mental state? Never the less, his toils produced many successes that exceptions had to be made in his case. The Professor has told me that in his younger years, he served in the heat of Cairo amidst the violence, tears and stolen breath of the khaki clad recruits. He had never recounted it all in much detail but I understood that it lay upon his weary mind. Like his beloved Damia, he had never forgotten and I doubted he ever would. The Professor, despite being a man of few words, never misplaced even a date or place; never mind the gruesome sight of splayed limbs dangling from their sockets.

I gave my gentleman the cautionary glance before entering as I always did. You see, with such a man, despite how well accustomed to him I was, you could never know his mood by his manner. He had a well kept facade upon his features, a perfect smile lifting his lips and a hollow gesture to welcome a visitor. However, his eyes were dull and clouded; from this, I could tell he was in the midst of one of his most puzzling reveries. I silently perched on one of the armchairs, haphazardly positioned around the room like a foray of confusion. I blinked slowly, awaiting his next move.



Marathon on the cross roads

via Daily Prompt: Marathon

Hi there, it appears I have become infatuated with these little bouts of inspiration that pop up upon the reader page. In fact, I find them rather endearing. I may continue to follow these writing prompts, that is, if it gets my idle mind ticking again!




Sweat plastering his brow, like a sheen of ill faith, he rode onwards. His feet slamming against hard concrete, encased in worn trainers, his form sheathed in a thin running attire. Made for speed, just like he was. Whatever had urged him to attempt this task? A forgot new years resolution turned sour? No. God no. He wasn’t as sentimental as his other co workers that, over cheap champagne purchased at a nearby Sainsburys, would succumb to the flush of change and excitement; to swear to exercise, to be a better  and so forth. As he rubbed the perspiration free, that was dripping into the course of his vision, he considered stopping. Why was he even running? Why bother? He was never fit, not even when he was a boy. He enjoyed closing the curtains and turning on the TV, to stare at the screen with awe inspired eyes.


To witness the miracle that broke the paradox of his guarded childhood through. Instead of the clouds, the empty fields and the boring old bookshop down the world, there was a life beyond. A world accessed by this small screen, or an even larger one if he could be bothered getting the bus up to the local cinema. Sport never appealed to him. The clammy changing rooms, the cold winter mornings in tight gym shorts and the ache of his muscles after. He knew he would never be involved in that ‘lot’ or so he referred to them. He was a gentleman of few passions, one of which would never be running or so he thought. But one day, he felt the urge. Thus, he threw on his old joggers, his old battered pumps that had been wasting at the back of his closet for years, and ran. He didn’t know where he was going nor, it seemed, did he care. The thrill in his veins pulled him onwards, up the Mauderville road, down the back alley, through Chesterfield park. His breath grew ragged, his heart drew close in his rib cage but he had never felt more alive.

Exquisite in hatred

via Daily Prompt: Exquisite

The bitter sweet silence fell again, as it always did. Words flittered out into open, once chirping little birds, now violent spectrals of blaring sirens and blasphemous accusations. All peace was suffocated under the storms of hate and ire, all joy blinded by the force of the fury. Their vicious glares melted into laconic gazes, the tummult of sudden emotion was all too well known.

“So,” he sighed, tone still verging upon distasteful, “what now?” That irked her, mind you, what didn’t?

“What do mean?” She hissed, “what else can I say to you? It’s over isn’t it.” That caused a moment of hesitation, a blissful pause.

“Over?” He muttered, at loss for words finally.

“Yes, we’re done.” His mind whirred, uncomprehending. The screw and bolts began to turn, flinging his consciousness into a spiral of confusion and fear. After all the flaring tempers, after all the heartfelt reconcilements; there was nothing left for either of them.

“Y-you don’t mean that,” he spluttered.

“Oh, I do,” she declared, full of pride and vengeance, “what was keeping this marriage alive, dare I ask? The children, the history, the memories? No. What then? I’ll tell you: the love. And now that’s evidently dead, well…” She left the pause in, to help her words sink deep into the limitations of his IQ.

“What about the kids?” He asked finally, all his grievances empty, left for doubt and perplexity, “you weren’t thinking about the kids?”

“The hell I was!” She guffawed, “they’re out the house now! We can barely even call them children. Two eighteen year olds, off to uni and one failure twenty five  year old rotting in the front room. Is that enough to save a relationship? Sandra and Matthew will be fine without us. And Richie? He can’t even make eye contact, never mind feel our absence.”  She stood, defiant in her anger that was sure to be short lived.

“We’re done!” She finalised, a Goth queen commanding an army of blood thirsty heathens, waving her spear in elation of her conquered enemy. The birds that had lifted up their spirits and sprung from their tongues in appeals of laughter and adoration had died, shrivelled and torn. Their mouths gaping in starvation of the golden light that once surrounded them, their wings torn from the sockets and left limp on the ground, the shining eyes gouged, now placid. As the adrenaline lifted from the scene, the two were left seething yet all the same, blank. There was nothing left in either sight but hatred and longing. Twenty five years of nonchalant loathing was gone. There was no facade anymore, it was shattered and trampled upon the ground. There was only two people that couldn’t stand each other. And a family that had been torn to shreds along with the polaroid pictures on the ground.



Tried something different today.



Following from here

Hello again. I’m feeling particularly inspired today so I decided to edit one of my old pieces. Well, when I mean edit, I mean randomly post it on this blog without even a minimal proof read. Sounds about right. This was a novel I worked on for about two months until I tired of it completely. The title is Following from here, which I thought of two minutes ago, (honesty is the best policy.) It consists of a struggling waitress trying to pay her dues and her life surrounding it. That is all the context I can think of right now, to be fair. It is very short, ill thought of and empty. I need to focus on developing the plot and characters, but to me, the story is a little dead in my mind. Anyway, I hope you like this little extract. I found it on my laptop a couple of weeks ago and forgot about it completely until now. I can’t promise it’s very good. I have the tendency to write random prose when insomina hits me.



Following from here.

She hated the night shift. Despite her love of quiet, silent evening drifting through the dark, it soon dawned on her that slaving away at the bar wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. In fact, she believed heartily that her manager had romanticised it when he proposed the offer months before hand. It was her own fault, she had begged Darren for overtime for countless hours.
“Come on, Daz. I need the work, you know I do,” I implored.
“I don’t know, Maeve,” he sighed, “Robert usually covers after time, it’s all he can do really around his day job.”
“I know that, but, please. It’s the rent, Daz. I can’t cover it with just tips alone.”
“Don’t you have another job?” He argued, “two part times should be enough to make ends meet?”
“You’d be surprised,” she smirked mirthlessly,” there isn’t much in the end.” She didn’t tell him about her brother. He didn’t need to know, no one did. In the end he had given up the fight, he always had a soft spot for her. They had resolved a mere two hours on Tuesdays and Fridays. At first, she bewailed this pathetic extent of her usual work hours but by the end, she was thankful that it hadn’t grown any further. School work toppled her anyhow, anymore work and she barely would have been able to drag herself to uni every morning.

It wasn’t as if being a waitress was the most rewarding of jobs. No, certainly not. There was much better occupations that surpassed her grueling hours and haughty customers to the low pay at the end of the month. In all honesty, she barely got by. Rent, water, electricity, food, heat. Sometimes it was all too much. On mornings, she scoured every surface of a cafe down main street for two hours. Then in the afternoon, she would revise for school exams or attend lectures which were infrequent at best. Then, there was the night shift. Perhaps, even a night lecture after that. Every day, long and tiring without a second of reflection. Sometimes, it felt like she was getting nowhere in life, her dream occupation of being a doctor seemed so far away. Despite all the hours she worked, despite all the effort she put in, it never seemed to be enough. Still, she couldn’t dwell on it, there was no point on living life for the fear of it crashing down, or so followed her logic. She had to have her optimism, otherwise, there wasn’t nothing left for her in the world. Anyway, if she gave up on everything what would keep her brother going?

She straightened her skirt, pulled her shoulders back and kept on plodding past the catcallers, salesman and the homeless scattered below the glowing neon and brash advertisements. She soon reached her stop, smiling in relief. Maeve pushed open the door, gleaming with expectation. She nodded at Gabriella who waved at her jubilantly, her dreadlocks bouncing as she did so. Gabby threw her an apron which Maeve trussed round her waist.
“Well, soldier,” her friend smirked, “are you ready for the apocalypse?”
“Whenever am I ever not?” Maeve returned, swiping a dish rag to wipe the tables. They reopened for dinner services at six and Darren was a stickler for a clean restaurant. Especially since he got a mere three for hygiene last year. Now, he made sure everything was spick and span, well, he made sure his staff did. Gabrielle would complain constantly about his lack of input to the establishment but Maeve would just laugh it off. She had known Gabriella for an awfully long time, she was a great ease from the bustle of the life. Gabriella was an easy going Jamaican immigrant with aspirations for being a chef. She had come to the restaurant, courageous, determined and ambitious. Despite the requests of the overbearing manager, Gabriella had kept these attributes entirely intact, if anything, pristine. However, she felt inclined to have a moan now and then, which always ensued hilarity. Whether it was mint sauce or cutlery, she always had a way with words. Gabby was a trooper, that was something Maeve knew for sure. It was one of the things they had in common, their optimism. Something that probably appealed to their camaraderie against the world and all its grievances. If someone was being foul mouthed in the bar to Gabby, Maeve was there to repeal it. If someone was fuming over their order and took out their fury on Maeve, Gabby always stepped in to diffuse the situations. Whilst their lives and ambitions were very different, they enjoyed each others company. Thus, always taking time for a conversation.

Extract from a ‘self help’ sample

Hi there,

I’ve been experimenting with different kinds of writing. Instead of the usual thriller novella that I write, I’ve decided to focus on non fiction, or self help books. Personally, I don’t read these kinds of books, because, in my free time I don’t really enjoy reading non fiction books. I prefer the escapism that stories provide instead of the self evaluation that this kind of book encourages. Any how, this is a first draft. It isn’t very fluent as it was conducted around two o’clock in the morning on a caffeine fuelled spree of prose miscreation. Thus, don’t expect much.



To be intelligent within yourself, you should have what I like to call the Renaissance mindset. To give context to this, the Renaissance period roughly translated to ‘rebirth’ or rather, the rebirth to curiosity. Before, in the medieval period, knowledge wasn’t considered highly valuable, rather wealth was considered above all else. Few were educated and followed religion stalwartly, basically being spoon fed whatever information they were given. As we all know, the Roman physician Galen was a Catholic, therefore all his findings were given as the gospel truth so his theories weren’t challenged or even experimented with. However, with new minds such as Vesalius and Harvey, some of Galen’s discoveries were proven false such as how many bones were in the body. The public began to slowly move further from religion, hence beginning the Renaissance period.

That is quite a blunt outline of what happened in time but hey, that’s my state school history class for you. To verge from my political ranting, the Renaissance republic was one of an inquisitive nature. More people began to read and write, really challenging what they knew about the world about them. History, science, maths, psychology, philosophy and the arts became of a larger focus, therefore, people became more intelligent. What we can gain from this is that the more we study in a plethora of aspects, the more we understand. So, if you dislike a certain subject such as maths or geography, learn more about it! If you can’t practise physics for the life of you, crack open a textbook. The more we work upon our weaknesses, the further we can develop our strengths. Maths is all around us whether we like it or not. The world is made up of nouns, adverbs and adjectives. Find the route of your discomfort and open the borders. No, you don’t have to become an expert but still, practise a little! Through this we can learn more about the world and earn further depth to our mind and character. And for the sake of this, read a book every week. It sounds tiresome but it will do a world of good. Start off on your favourites and move onto something more challenging. You will become more prolific in your speech and thus more articulate in the process.

Another aspect that we should focus on is our body itself. I know, it is awful to think about but getting fit can help you so much! Not only knowledge but health and happiness is the object of existence. A similar quote to that is from the Buddha, ‘health is the greatest gift, contentment the greatest wealth, faithfulness the best relationship.’ Which leads me onto others around you.

It is common knowledge that the people we have as company affect as people. Thus by having friends with well rounded lives, successful careers and, I suppose, happy lives can influence you in certain ways. To be blunt, if you don’t like your friends, you won’t be inclined to be a very happy person. Hence, if you have people that are close to you that are affecting how joyful you can be, it is best to get out of such a relationship. As unhappiness is toxic in its own way. True, being constantly happy is unreasonable and, overall, unreachable. However, being content is fathomable. What I mean by content isn’t an onslaught of constant joy and elation, rather calm and prosperity in its own way.

Being calm can be difficult in our lives. Stress frequently affects us everyday, preventing us from functioning to our highest capacity. Work, family and friends can be the causes of stress. Friction in relationships are often the root of any tired mind. Thus, an outside perspective should always be brought into account when evaluating the feelings and strife that could accumulate in such a situation.

Sherlock new season

Yes, yes, I know it is very off track but I do love this series. It is intellectual and  visually appealing, what isn’t to like? I can’t wait for the third episode of the new season though I do hold mixed feelings about Mary’s sudden death and ghostly reappearance. In all honesty, the old episodes are closer to my heart, perhaps I am just an advocate against change.

Much thanks,




My first post.

Hi there. It’s nice to meet you, welcome to my blog. In this, I hope to focus on psychology especially, (or any random thoughts that enter my mind with such a vague title to lead it.) I’d like to focus on my own personal theories and observations of the world around me. Perhaps, even passions that are close to my heart such as theatre and music.


Many thanks