Grumpy old man getting his head together in the country writes gloomy fiction and takes moody photos. Sometimes he makes depressing electronic rock music. What? No, *you're* having a mid-life crisis.
“From these wastelands strange piles of basalt gleamed darkly in the sun – weird masses of stone too regular to be called the work of nature, too unthinkably ancient to be the work of man.” – Karl Edward Wagner, Darkness Weaves
A half-century ago, they say, you could walk to the bottom of the Bewl Valley in summer and jump over the river to get to the other side.
(more…)This was written in the late hours of one Friday evening and the early hours of the subsequent Saturday morning in a desperate attempt to have something ready for Stokes Croft Writers’ ongoing storytelling night Talking Tales (I strongly recommend you check out their podcast series on iTunes here).
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Somebody Always Drowns 