The Fleabag Effect (or the strange effect the Fleabag has had on me) (thoughts)

If you are reading this on the day that it gets posted I will be seeing Fleabag at the Wyndham Theatre in London this evening. This, of course, depends on me not doing some silly nonsense such as leaving the ticket indoors, which is likely. Another likely scenario is my forgetting that I’m going (which I did last week). Continue reading “The Fleabag Effect (or the strange effect the Fleabag has had on me) (thoughts)”

The Mission Statement (thoughts)

The aim, as far as I can tell, is to be prolific.
To create far more than necessary, far more than is asked for, far more than a person can consume.
To work so hard and create so much that you have absolutely nothing left to say, and no way in which to say it. And then, and only then, you sit down, you sit down and you create the best thing you’ve ever made.
You create what everything before it had been working toward.

I think that that’s a worthy aim.

‘it’ (Spoken)


The idea for the audio link above came to me when I was listening to Radio Four, a programme called ‘The Offing’, on a long drive home from Belfast a few nights ago.

The audio is me, reading out one of my recent posts, ‘it’, which can be found here. This may or may not become something that occurs more often, audio to go with the text, I’m not sure. For now, I’m just trying it out.

Parking Spot (Short Story)

“How can you go straight past a spot like that?” I ask Davis as she drives past yet another space. Her car is ridiculously big.

“How could you accept money from the mafia? That’s what I want to know!” Damn. I sighed and let myself sink deeper into the massive seats. Desperately wanting to change the subject I replied,

“You know, the higher we go the more chance we have of finding a space.” She replied to me without even turning towards me.

“We came from upstairs! How stupid are you?” Sometimes a conversation with her could be a bit confusing.

“Do you mean stupid because of the parking or taking the mon…” She cuts me off before I can finish. Continue reading “Parking Spot (Short Story)”

Family Tradition (Short Story)

“You don’t really have to understand it, I barely understand it.” I said to Max as we stood at the front door. Max had come round for our Friday the 13th dinner. Max was my only friend at school, the rest were horrible.

“So I have to draw the pentagram on my head?” Max says, somewhat confused. I shake my head and smile.

“No, no, I’ll do that for you, that way it’s done right.” I then proceed to draw a pentagram on Max’s head, we walk into the house and then we go downstairs to dinner. Max breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that everyone else has a perfect pentagram on their foreheads. “Everyone draws them on each other.” I whisper as we sit down to eat. Max manages to make small talk with my parents and it’ gone well. We then all join hands and say a prayer. I can see Max fidgeting in his chair and all of a sudden a brilliant flame comes from nowhere and Max disappears in an echo of screams.

“Now honey, that was mean to give him an upside-down pentagram wasn’t it?” My mum says as I chuckle.

“I’m never going back there, never.” I say.

“Fine.” Mum shrugs, and then we all have cake!

This short story is a part of my ‘Project 642’ series. Where I try and work my way through the entire ‘642 Things to Write About’ book.
This was written on the 30th August 2016.
This is story 11 out of 624. The prompt is below.

  • Tell a complete stranger about a beloved family tradition

Filler Sounds (Short Story)

I hate when she’s reading her magazine, there is no way to get a decent conversation going, so I just gave up on talking. I catch her eye and shake the empty cup around that I had in my hand. I figure I might as well offer as I’m about to make myself a drink anyhow.

“Urrrr” she responds, barely looking up. So I put it back turning off the kettle as there’s no point making hot chocolate. I stick my head in the fridge, there’s loads of diet cokes in there and one regular, which is annoying, I never buy diet, she does.  But, she rarely drinks diet, it’s more aspirational if anything. I hold out two cans of diet over the fridge door and hear her reluctantly agree,

“Uh-huh”, I fill her glass up at the table and my own behind the fridge door, out of sight, I really do like full fat coke.

This short story is a part of my ‘Project 642’ series. Where I try and work my way through the entire ‘642 Things to Write About’ book.
This was written on the 30th August 2016.
This is story 10 out of 624. The prompt is below.

  • Write a scene where the only spoken dialouge is “Uh huh,” “Um,” “Urrrr,” “Mm-mmm”

Cassie (Short Story)

“It’s forever, and I hate it.” She took a drag on her cigarette, the smoke from her lips almost indistinguishable from the vapours of my breath that were simultaneously reaching up into the Winter air. Her fingers pointing out toward the ocean, the sky above it, grey and overcast, was reflected in the water below, creating a horizon that carried on and on. There were no ships to break apart the void, no landmarks in the distance.

“Forever can be good, better than the opposite.” I shrug as I take the cigarette from her fingers and take a drag myself, sometimes I don’t know what I’m talking about. “It could all be too short, you could be at the middle of your life right now and not even know it. And being in the middle could even be considered lucky. I catch a glimpse at my watch as I inhale once more. “Shit, I’ve got to go.” I hand back the cigarette and am met with a questioning look. “Time to go home.” Continue reading “Cassie (Short Story)”

Orbits (A Fragment)

“I am slowly but surely getting over you.” I say, as we sit on the old pier looking out at the blackness of the sea ahead of us and the stars above us. Their ancient light trying it’s best to fight through the haze at the end of an aeons-long journey, to then be thwarted by street lights.

“Slowly but surely? Really?” Lucy asks.

Well, it’s certainly going slow.” I say, still facing forward, the warmth of her head on my shoulder as she loops her arm through the gap between mine and my torso. And we both sit there, we sit there for a long time. And I’m okay with it going slowly, it’s not like it’s something I particularly want. Because this, right here, this is what I want.

This post consists of a small fragment from a novel that I’m probably going to start writing in November as this year’s NaNoWriMo entry, Orbits. I have about three other stories vying for my attention. As you can probably tell, space runs through a lot my stories, as it does all things. It’s only a small piece of what will eventually become a full novel of two people who cannot escape each other, but I like this part so far the most. It’s quiet in its enormity.

NaNoWriMo & The Richard Anthony Morris Book Club

I write novels, short ones, and only on occasion. Finishing about two a year. This all started in 2015 when I attempted NaNoWriMo for the first time. I’m sure that you are probably aware, but, NaNoWriMo is short for national novel writing month. A month where you try your best to get out a first draft of a novel. Now, when I attempted this in 2015, I won, managing to belt out over 50,000 words in the thirty days of November. I actually managed to produce 57,425 words, averaging out 1,914 words a day, but who’s counting. But yeah, statistics aside, every year since 2015 I have attempted NaNoWriMo and every year I have managed to complete it. Sometimes only by a hair.

But, then I started to wonder what to do with it, what to do with these novels that I had written. While I liked the stories and I was proud of them, they weren’t quite ready to be sent off, or, more precisely, I wasn’t ready as a writer. These books, the ones I’ve done so far are kind of like my practice. But, I still needed something to do with them, and that’s when I created ‘The Richard Anthony Morris Book Club’, because I love attention and the sound of my own name. Continue reading “NaNoWriMo & The Richard Anthony Morris Book Club”

‘it’ (Thoughts)

“So, are we going to see your crush tonight then?” Alex asks with a smile on her face. We are sat in a pub in Camden waiting for the comedy show upstairs to begin. I get distracted, looking at the burger that I ordered as my meal of the day and secretly wondering why I ordered it, as I know it’s not really what I want. I look away from my food to answer.

“No, I mean, we are going to see her but she’s not my crush.” I say, picking up a chip, wondering whether or not to put mayonnaise on it. I don’t, there’s a strange certainty to putting sauce over your chips. It kind of makes them unsharable.

“But you think she’s cute.” Alex retorts. I pause for a moment, chip still in hand. Continue reading “‘it’ (Thoughts)”

Something Blue (Short Story)

There’s a certain divine justice to not getting used to constant pain and the last break I had was so long ago it almost hurts to recall the momentary reprieve from my eternal task (and punishment). I hold up the sky, and I shall for all eternal. I miss my brother Menoetius above all others. But I, stuck in this western world shall never see his face again. I would sigh, but it wouldn’t help. I am Atlas, welcome to my hell.

This short story is a part of my ‘Project 642’ series. Where I try and work my way through the entire ‘642 Things to Write About’ book.
This was written on the 30th August 2016.
This is story 9 out of 624. The prompt is below.

  • What a character holding a blue object is thinking right now

50/50 (Short Story)

“I nearly killed you!” Hearing someone, who you are not expecting, rummaging through your kitchen at 3am is just cause to grab a baseball bat. And seeing George, your long dead flatmate eating a sandwich, is cause to drop it. As the bat bounces for a moment and rolls on the floor and out of the room, I shook my head. I’m am one hundred percent sure that he’s dead, because I’m the one that did it. Most men don’t survive a drop into an active volcano.

“No, no, no.” He says with a mouthful of cheese and ham in his mouth. “You killed my twin.” He could tell by the look of confusion that he must have forgotten to mention that he had a twin. “Oh yeah. Now, this was the part where your luck has run out somewhat.”

“Oh?” I ask. “How so?”

“Yeah, all of these doors are locked, and he was the good twin.” He finishes his sandwich and rub his hands together to brush off the crumbs. He reaches for the counter, my eyes follow and I see in his hands, the massive knife that he used to make his sandwich.

“Oh.” I say somewhat defeated. I shouldn’t have dropped the bat.

This short story is a part of my ‘Project 642’ series. Where I try and work my way through the entire ‘642 Things to Write About’ book.
This was written on the 29th August 2016.
This is story 8 out of 624. The prompt is below.

  • The Long-lost Roomate