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If we can break it...

January 09, 2017

AI Blog Bowie Brexit Campaign False journalism Future Humanism Journalism Musings Protest Revolution Scribbles Social media Trump Video Writing

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The Arse Bone

November 17, 2014

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Chicky Stickin'

October 13, 2014

Blog Food Recipes Scribbles

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The Prettiest Lies / This is the Captain of Your Shit

September 23, 2014

Blog Fiction Scribbles

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PictorIIIum

Image Scribbles

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PictorIIum

Image Scribbles

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Every Picture...

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And Willfred too

Image Scribbles

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Andrea

Image Scribbles

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Infana Kolonia (Book draft)

FICTION Please note that this is a draft work and that access is restricted to test readers who have been issued a reader pass by the author. All content (C) Steve Laker, 2016. Infana Kolonia Chapter One Infana Every night at roughly the same time, a ritual was played out on Minato Drive in Infana Kolonia: the kind of thing which one could easily walk past and be oblivious to. Equally, the casual observer who noticed would find it quite extraordinary. A slim girl with long brown hair and in her early twenties stands at the kerbside, looking at a drain cover in the road outside René's café. Then a set of knuckles protrudes from the drain and passes up a folded sheet of paper: an unseen figure hanging above the water flowing beneath the city. There are tattoos on the fingers: not LOVE and HATE but TAKE THAT. Jess takes the note and continues on her way, as ritual dictates. The first note she'd actually read had simply been an introduction: "Good evening, Bonan vesperon, B...

Delete the Red Button

15.11.14 (Day 327); 16.11.14 (Day 328)... interminable. 09.42, 12.42, 15.42, 18.42, 21.42... interminable. I wish I was awake. Less tired. Less paranoid. A day in the life. With only a shared wife. Thoughts as they occur... Three hours into my day and none into that of others. The deafening silence has been interrupted by the sound of Pringles being eaten. As a breakfast snack. By me. A two minute silence was observed here in the kitchen for my dear departed friend Nigel. Or rather it was, then a dog started barking. It has a cough. It was killed (the silence). Cancer killed my friend. The silence is killing me. He was a colourful character, comparable to me: very intelligent, vocal and more than a bit camp. He was gay - in all senses of the word - and I've had to sleep in a tent on more than one occasion. We drank together. Often it was too much. Surrounded by beings of lesser intelligence. And the atmosphere. Toss pots in our pub. Fucking females. Fucking hormones. The attitudes:...

Below the Line

30.01.14 Although I've drawn a line under certain things, I have engaged with a couple of people today: people from the old life. Although that life is gone, in engaging with them the way I did, I almost think a greater mutual understanding is beginning to emerge. They've spoken with my key worker and everyone seems to be on the same page now: I fucked up (or things got fucked up) twice but this third attempt at recovery will work. I've got my writing - my chosen path - and all concerned realise that it's good therapy. And it's not just the journal and the blog which I write; it's poems and short stories, some of which are written in my capacity as writer-in-residence at the railway station. Besides the therapy element though, as it's my chosen path, the entrepreneur in me has re-emerged and my two websites are not only parked but - subject to a few transfers of code - hosted. I just need to build / design them. Until www.gilberthousepublishing.com an...

Washed up in a land I didn't know

MY WORLD Two words are prevalent in my mind as I begin to write the memoir of my time on the road: fucking hell. I do not plan to share further chapters of this with anyone other than my close circle of test readers but as I put my mind to the task in hand, the introduction - as it turns out - is quite a hook... It came from nowhere and everywhere: it suddenly dawned on me that I'd fallen to the lowest place possible before death, yet the situation was of my own making. I hadn't been trying to kill myself but it turned out I'd been doing a pretty good job without realising. There were many times when I could quite easily have met my end or come to more harm than I did in the event. In a way, I wished that someone else would end my life because I lacked the courage to do it myself. I did try. I took two overdoses but didn't do a very good job of it: the story of a life which was doomed to continue. Other people had a go. There was a time when I asked someone to help me...

My Name is Luca

Just got this: someone gets me... Hi Fred, didn't want to put this on FB so thought I would message you privately coz I really don't want to fall out with anyone but I am with you on this one. All these negative and sometimes horrible comments are completely unnecessary and can't be helping you at all. You have had so much advice over the past few days and weeks that you are probably not listening to any of it now. For what it's worth I may as well say my bit too. People will now comment on what has been happening positive and negative but I would suggest that you no longer fuel these discussions by replying and trying to justify yourself. Just concentrate on what you have to do for your recovery and keep us posted on just the positive things that you are doing to help yourself. Tell us when you have been to your detox, job centre, housing, etc but leave the love life and the rest of it for your blog and those that are interested will read it. Chin up mate. You ...

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