Category Archives: writing

Failing to Make The Crumble

  Time cut short by a pinch, the butter, once destined for a child’s bag of ingredients, fails to make the crumble. And it s l i t h e r s down a kitchen cabinet, greasing a wooden door, and slodge-piling onto a vinyl floor, as a mother’s feet, weary from a once-broken toe,Continue reading “Failing to Make The Crumble”

The Long Moment

  Longing for a long moment to come to be shorter, he demands to know, ‘How long?’ and receives no reply, just the elongating sound of silence, stretching out, out and stabbing into his head, his thoughts, his freedom to remain encapsulated and undisturbed, and his freedom to be momentarily himself, a freedom now lost foreverContinue reading “The Long Moment”

Dippy Bit

  I slice the top off my soft-boiled breakfast egg and watch as the little crackly bits start to cave in. But its a start-stop moment.  Most of the cracklies find themselves held back by a sticky membrane. Have the cracklies been saved from a great fall into a disaster zone, or have they beenContinue reading “Dippy Bit”

The Pebbles on the Beach: Book Review

I do not receive commission for any links to Amazon. Pebbles. A book titled ‘The Pebbles on the Beach’ might not an the obvious choice for a can’t-put-down read. But, having been picked up, it had to be bought. And what drew an inlander from the sandstone caves of Shropshire, into a book about Britain’sContinue reading “The Pebbles on the Beach: Book Review”

Intimidation

The years advance and she backtracks, shrinking and shrivelling, arthritic hips, knee-joints and feet, reducing her movements to the crunching of a shovel, scraping upon gritted concrete. She thinks that she is insignificant now, passing through middle age to a lesser existence, to an existence of otherness. Others, though, others see her in all ofContinue reading “Intimidation”

Serious Book -The Trader, The Owner, The Slave

Alarmed to discover, via my extensive family tree research, that some of my ancestors considered themselves to be the owners of slaves, I felt it my moral duty to investigate further. What is the nature of the universal driving force, responsible for motivating ordinary people to raise themselves up by the mass destruction of others?Continue reading “Serious Book -The Trader, The Owner, The Slave”

Happiness

  Happiness –  the substance of my life. The hapless old friend who comments on my blog posts, thoughtfully emailing me my response options, which include: cider, ha ha, and thanks! The app I’m told to install for discounts on Indian takeaways from Aysha; The tacking pins embedded in the paint-stained carpet of my creativeContinue reading “Happiness”

Granted

The New Zealand massacre: my thoughts on the hypocrisy of the perpetrator. Ordinary. A regular guy Granted, he’s an immigrant. Being an immigrant, he hates himself. Looking at his own reflection, he wreaks havoc.   Copyright owned by Jay Cool, March 2019  

Passaged

Bundled. Bundled and bundling out of one’s passage, they fall. All woolled-up, and tangled-up with each other – tight. Heads protruding from sheaths. Translucent and streaked with blood. With one’s own blood. From the blood within the passage from whence they tumbled, all bundled-up and packaged. All packaged-up and white, I vomit, bundles and bundlesContinue reading “Passaged”

Corrugated

  Hands. Skin of middle-age – corrugated. Not quite attractive, but just enough, to keep the rain out – to keep the muscles, and the bones, inside, but not enough, to prevent the veins from bobbling on out of my me-ness.   Copyright owned by Jay Cool, March 2019   Image by RonPorter, courtesy ofContinue reading “Corrugated”