Author: HORansome

I wrote a rather pretentious rant a few weeks back, all about the terrors, travails and virtues of the writing life.

     It was wank. Wank wank wank.

So I’m rather pleased that I didn’t end up posting it for all to see, although perhaps I should give you some edited and context-less highlights, for the sake of our children (well, his children…)
     Actually, no. I’d far rather you read this. Not mine, but so much of what is good in the world isn’t.

“People often relate their dreams to me, as if amazed that they are capable, even in that sub-lucid realm, of conceiving of such nonsensical, even non sequitur, images. The wonder, or empowerment, I hear in their voices is of the creator„cut loose from inhibitions: stimulating themselves. They marvel at their sleeping mindÍs ability to not make sense, and then proceed as if it did. They seem surprised that they can open up reality and tinker with it, maybe even that they are permitted to.”
     Jeff Paris, ‘New Genre’, Volume I, Number III, Summer 2002

Almost time to start making an archive page for my previous additions to the narrative… Almost.
     Anyway… I’ve been cleaning out the document folders on the desktop PC and found this little gem that was going to be a story once, but never got worked on:

The room contained thirty monkeys, one of which was a murderer.
     “Small things,” I said to the Baroness, “that is what I tend to notice. The minuatie of the situation, the facial ticks, the forced tones of speech. All scientific, I might add. No mumbo-jumbo.”
     “I should hope so,” she said, not believing a thing I had just said.

Or there is this beginning to a story starring the intrepid explorer, Thumper McKensey:

Twas a summer eve, if memory serves correctly, when Fritzy-Boy poured himself into my rooms on Barnyard Street. He had been missing for something over four months and I was, truth be told, starting to get a little concerned.

Well, yes..