Sleepless, I walk

Sleepless, I walk to the window.
I part the cold, heavy curtains, and look.
The football pitch lights have been left on.

My eyes take to the grass, green in the light.
Well cut. The painted lines straight and white.
Looked after. Fixed. Neat.

And then, something appears in the penalty box,
holds still as if it knows it’s being watched;
lean body, bold orange fur, a clean, white bib,

and if only it would just turn and look at me, just once,
but it doesn’t, and it darts, disappears
into the bordering shadow. Swallowed.

Further, a car inches along the far road, ribboned
across the hills. Headlights bore the black.
A lone porch light dies behind the trees.

The stadium lights burn and burn
and I wait and I wait. Nothing comes back.
I leave the curtains open and accept the night.

Back to bed, and I am restless,
knowing the silent waves of sleep
wash sediment of braver days.


I am reminded of the ways things will always go
as I run the route by the lambs and graveyard.
One foot in front of the other, over and over.
Grass. Asphalt. Concrete. Doesn’t matter.
Autumn is soon to leave, winter’s chill bites
and lets go, spring is growth and shearing,
and summer flies by as I doze and forget
about the days.

But it is drilled into me, laboured, as my sole
strikes and strikes the ground, sending me
forward with each stride. My own stride.
A heartbeat I control, as much as I can, and it’s Invictus,
sounding off in my head to a quiet, distant knell.
Shoes on. Oars in the rowlocks.
Charon can rest his arms in the stern.

The Gift

He arrived half an hour early. He sat on the bench on the platform and held his hands in his lap. The cold, January air nipped his ankles and nape. There was no noise of cars. No bird sang. He sat and looked upon the country hills cast out before him, green and lush.

An older couple arrived. They shared the weight of a travel bag, a handle in each hand, and both of them put it down with a great sigh. They sat on the bench beside. The woman opened her handbag and withdrew tissues. She dabbed her eyes with the corners before the folding it twice and wiping her cheeks. The man sat with his wallet in front of him. He opened it for a brief moment to look at a photo of a young girl. He closed it and opened it once more to see if she was still there.

“Have you got the tickets?” she asked.


“And the change for the bus when we get there?”


“When are the flowers arriving?”

“On time. I told you. Everything is sorted. Don’t worry.” 

“Thank you.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright.”

Time passed in silence. The man did not move nor did the couple say anything more. They all held their heads low in quiet thought. Fallen leaves lay still on the platform. No wind came to disturb their setting.

The train pulled in. It crept towards the platform, the two carriages blocking the view of the country behind as it went. The windows approached and not one contained a person. Instead they gave a short gallery and framed the trees, hedgerows, and hills that lay behind. Before the train came to a full stop, an attendant leapt from the doors and walked with the train as if a horse to a stable. Then he strode off to one side and lit a cigarette. The couple quickly embarked and sat themselves down. Through the window they became a new portrait: a woman breaking into tears, a man holding her hands in his.

He watched them both from the bench. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Still, no birds sang, no trees rustled. Even the train had become mute and peaceful.

The attendant stood gazing upwards. When he drew the cigarette to the butt, he stamped it out and lit another. Eyeing the man on the bench, he made his way over and stood before him.

“You getting on?” he said, speaking with the cigarette bobbing between his lips.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”


“Well,” he said, taking the cigarette from his mouth, “this is the only train that stops at this platform. Eight o’ clock every Monday. It takes a two hours to get to the city. Unless you want to wait another week, I suggest you get on this train.”

“How long will you wait now?”

The attendant looked up and down the platform. “Looks like it’s only you to wait for.” He glanced at a pocket watch. “You’ve got one minute.”

“The thing is, I’m not sure if I want to go.”

“Well. Are you going for business or pleasure?”


“Have you got a place to stay?”


“Who are you meeting?”

“No one.”

“Well.” He had a long last drag and stamped the cigarette. “Not sure if I can help you with that.”

“That’s okay.”

“Alright then.” He said. “Two minutes,” and he returned to the carriage.

The man leaned forward onto his knees and held his head in his hands. He watched the last embers escape the cigarette on the ground, the wind gently picking at the blackened tobacco. The small orange glow faded to nothing.

He opened his satchel bag and went through his belongings. He had money, a book, cigarettes, a flask of coffee, a travel pass, a clementine, and a neat white box. He sat the box on his lap and opened it. The pen inside was struck with sunlight and the silver was bright and clean and perfect. He held it as if he were about to write.

It was a gift from years ago. He remembered first unwrapping the box. He removed the lid and inside it lay silver and complete, just as it did now. That same evening was the first time he touched the nib to paper. Thank you, he wrote. Over the years the pen had translated his thoughts, ideas, questions and feelings. The pen had composed poetry and song. It had created notes in margins and sketched flowers and insects he loved. The pen had filled crosswords on sunny afternoons and found answers to quizzes in pubs. The pen had made lists and letters, made names on invitations and poured out words of love and tenderness. And in the last of it’s duty, the pen had written him the note. The same note that he had practiced writing in his mind a dozen times. The same note that he penned through the dark hours of last night. The same note that he signed and kissed and left folded on his pillowcase.

That chapter had finished. Dawn had long broken. The day had already begun. A breeze arrived on the platform, clearing the path before him of leaves and cigarette stubs and dust. The train gave a short hiss. A sparrow called, perched on the high branch of the tree nearby. He looked up at it’s wings, it’s bold, brown body. The solitary bird, he said to himself.

He placed the pen back into the box and left it on the bench. He buttoned up his bag, gave a nod to the attendant, and stepped onto the train.

Joseph Pues

In February, I published a poem called Joseph Pues. It has come to this:

The Man Who Calls

I spoke to him again this morning. The conversation went:



“This isn’t Joseph.”

“Joseph Pues?”

“This isn’t Joseph Pues.”


“This isn’t Joseph Pues. He doesn’t live here.”

“Can you pass a message please?”

“I don’t know where he lives –

“For Joseph Pues”

“ – or who he is.”

“I have a message for him.”

“I don’t know who he is.”

“Tell him I miss him.”

“I don’t know where he lives. I’m sorry. Joseph Pues doesn’t live here.”

“Oh, okay.”

It’s frequent, now. Each call I can tell his whiskey breath on his slurred words, some broken and hiccuped and some urgent and thought.

My neighbour upstairs told me someone called Joseph did once live in my flat. His surname unknown. “A kind lad,” she told me, “a nice boy who helped me read the gas meter. He kept the music down, he read a lot, and he would always leave for work before I did.”

I remember the landlord saying I could move in right away because the flat was left so clean. I’m not sure who this Joseph person was, but I can guess. Of course, it’s all open to interpretation. To subject. Now, I cleaned my flat before I moved out. My landlord was nice. He paid the water bill, called the exterminator when wasps found their way into the bathroom, so I felt it was only kind to clean any mess I made in a space he owned. Perhaps Joseph did this. But I also left my last flat heartbroken, single, alone, hungry for a new life, desperate to rid the old. I took bleach and soap and sanitiser to each surface, to doorknobs and windows and cooker hobs and cupboards so not even my scent would linger, not even my skin cells, and no one would know I was here. It felt good to do that, to cleanse a space I lived, erase history, redirect my post to a new address, cancel landline, internet.

Did Joseph Pues do the same? A change of life? Was this a quick escape?To disconnect from everything, and everyone, he was made of? Christ, who knows where he is, why he’s gone, what effort he exerted to shed identity and place and what office he hoped to occupy.

And for what reason, to avoid this man who quivers and weeps over the phone? He calls in the morning and afternoon and midnight for him. What could he have done, what sin committed or promise broken sent Joseph Pues to a void free of telephone directories and public registers?

Is Joseph Pues even alive?

My neighbour upstairs mentioned that she hasn’t heard or seen of Joseph since, despite him saying, before he left, that he would keep in touch. It’s been six months now.

He called again tonight. The man who calls.

“Is – is Joseph Pues there please?”

“He isn’t. He doesn’t live here. I don’t know who he is. I don’t know where he lives.”

Paradise Lost – A Short Story

The boy walked down Graham Street at midnight. He was fifteen years old, wearing a raincoat, sports sneakers, and a black eye the size of a golf ball. On his shoulder he carried a bag full of clothes, books, and a wedged in his back pocket a wallet holding two hundred dollars of household chores and summer job pay. It was a heavy rain, harsh and unforgiving, and it came down hard upon the boy, hard upon his brow, his shoulders, upon his legs as he marched. A car came towards him. As it passed, he shied his face from the headlights, and quickened his pace after.

At the junction, he took to the shelter of a bus stop, just as the weather was ready to lash again in a whip of rain. Thunder rumbled through the clouds, the wind picked at his clothes. He clutched his arms and shivered in the cold.

An old man sat opposite in the cove of an overpass, nestled in the concrete where the road left the land. His slim figure red in the warmth of a fire burning in a sprawl of wood. He saw the boy up the hill, alone, small against the hills behind. With his fingers in his mouth, he blew a sharp whistle that pierced the night, and gestured to the fire when he held the boy’s attention. The boy thought about it, checking his watch, looking for the passing cars. Then, he left the bus stop and jogged down the dirt bank, careless of treading the pooling puddles. The bag slid from his shoulder and he sat himself opposite the old man.

“Thanks for letting me join you. I appreciate it.” The boy held his hands out toward the blaze and found his breath.

“No problem. There’s enough warmth to share.”

The old man was wrapped in an overcoat, torn at the pockets and collar. His beard draped over the top buttons, full and thick and forgotten. Through his shoes poked his toes, black and dirty as coal.

Once the boy had calmed his shivers, he tied his shoes, counted the dollars in his wallet, and checked his watch. The old man gave him a long hard look. “You leaving town?”

“Yes, sir. Going south. There’s a bus I’m catching. It comes by in about forty minutes.”

“You must be catching the last one.”

“That’s right.”

As the boy leaned toward the fire, the light brought out the purple hue around his eye, strong and thick in the colour of a passion fruit. His eye half closed in the swell. The old man studied it.

“Where you heading?”

“South. Lexington.”

“You meeting anyone? In Lexington?”

“What does it matter?”

“How old are you?”

“Old enough. What does it matter?” The boy asked again.

“Well. I don’t think you should be out by yourself at this time of night.”

“I’m just fine.”

“Okay.” The old man stirred a cardboard box behind. Lining the inside was a soft blanket, a bed for his few possessions. A framed photograph, a book of poetry, cigars and mints in a small tin. He rummaged out a six pack of beer, peeled one from the plastic and opened it. The clean rasp of the metal shot like a loud whisper.

“Someone dropped these beers to me earlier. There’s some nice people out here. Still cold.”

“Can I have one of those?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I’m twenty-one.”

“No, you’re not.”

“But can I have one? Please?”

“Hell. I shouldn’t,” but then he thought about it, and tossed the boy a can. “Cops come by these parts near every night now. They come down here and tell me to put out the fire. They’re not happy when I’m drinking, neither. They won’t be happy if they catch you with one.”

“They won’t.” The boy opened the can and took a sip. His face recoiled to the bitterness. He took another and recoiled again.

“At least put it against your shiner, for Christ’s sake.” The boy brought the tin to his eye. The can dwarfed his hand. His fingers barely made the girth. As the fire shrank in height, the old man took a handful of sticks from his side and fed them to the fire. The dirt bank glowed with the passing of cars, some cruising back to town, some speeding across the overpass. The gruff chug of a truck passed, stirring the newspapers, the leaves, and dust.

“Where do you live?” He asked, gesturing his head up toward the hills where the pine were freckled with lights from windows.


“That’s a nice area. Nice houses.” The boy gave a nod and then a shrug, as if to imply he’d never thought about it. “They still have that coffee shop on the corner? With the Nigerian lady?”


“I always liked her.”

“Yeah, she’s nice.”

“And those cherry donuts?”

“Yeah. Chocolate ones, too.”

“I liked those cherry ones.”

“Yeah, they’re good.”

“So, what happened?” he asked, gesturing to the bruise. The boy kept quiet. He took another sip from the beer, and then put it down between his feet, accepting the bitterness. “You don’t have to say. You don’t have to tell me what happened. It helps to talk. I’ve found.” He gave it a minute. “I heard the rain is going to get worse this week.”

The boy bit his lip, scratched his chin, careful of the acne. “You know, it’s not easy being a kid. I don’t know what’s going on most of the time. My parents, they want me to do well. Told me I had to put in the extra hours after school. They made me work so hard for grades I knew I could never get. Exams go by and I did even worse than last year. I knew it when the pen touched the paper, before I wrote anything down. I knew it then I was gonna fail. I tried so hard but I knew it.”

“School’s tough.”

“They saw my grades. They got mad. Mom starts shouting. Dad shouts louder. Me and him get into a fight. It all got crazy.” The boy brought the can back to his eye.

“You ever fought before?”

“No. We argue. A lot. This was the worst time.”

“You’ll be okay.” The old man tried to work a smile from the boy, to hint of hope or reassurance. But nothing came. The thunder had subsided but the rain still fell, heavy and loud. The cold rivalled the fire, and the boy held his arms in his lap.

“I used to live somewhere nice. Not far from here. Had the whole lot. The perfect life, you might say. Family. Friends. Money. Strength. But how’d it come to this, right? I can see it in your face.” He drained the beer, placed the empty can quietly by his side and opened another. “You could say I had paradise. But something happened. I wasn’t treated fairly. Now, I don’t believe in things having to be fair in life. That’s not how life works. But I was unhappy. I said some things I shouldn’t have said. Did some things I shouldn’t have done. It cost me everything. I was cast to the streets. I lost my family. My friends. Christ, it all happened so fast. Couldn’t tell you the details. I don’t remember most of it. I hit the whiskey hard and that was that.”

“You doing alright?” The boy asked. “A stupid question, sorry.”

“No, you’re okay. I am. It may be hell but you can make it heaven. It’s in the mind. Not in the dirt. You could have it all yet still be unhappy. And you could have nothing and find yourself content. I got a few friends, all similar situation. We do alright together.” Graffiti and tags covered the concrete behind the man. Scribbles of black and blue, the scrawled calligraphy of the local mavericks. Eddy loves Mary. Bobby does it best. Rebel Angels.

A bus stopped at the shelter, hissing to a halt. Two people alighted to the chime of the opening doors, walked together up the hill until the dark swallowed them whole. The soft amber lights of the bus vanished as it drove down the road.

“Next one’s mine.”

The old man thought about the words he was about to say. He took another sip from his beer, swished a mouthful, and then he moved closer to the boy.

“I don’t want to play the card of the wise old man. Heck, I’m not wise in the slightest, but I know what it’s like to be your age. Not so keen on authority, right? That comes from parents being too strict, usually. Or too soft. It’s a hard balance. You got a strict father?”

“Yeah. Real strict.”

“Mine was, too. At the time, when I was young, I thought had it the worst. My father was a hard man. A hard man. A man of discipline, of rules, routine. He spent the whole of his life like that. Tightly wound with no give. One day I resisted his word, made a stance. Spoke for myself. I stood up for something I wanted, something that I thought was right. I think that, looking back, all I wanted was an apology from him, or for him to show some sort of acknowledgement of his mistakes. I didn’t need to rebel. I didn’t need to quit. I made the decision in the heat of the moment and was too stubborn not to follow through. But, I would have made a very different decision that day if someone had just listened.” The old man looked down to his shoes. The shine had long gone and the material had split at the seams.

“I don’t think I’ll be getting an apology.”

“Alright kid. If you do, please don’t ignore it. It takes a lot for someone to apologise. To know when they’re at fault.”

“I don’t think it’ll happen.”

“Well. You come by my fire anytime. If you’re around.”

A smile broke from the boy. “Thank you.”

“I live a high life of luxury being homeless. There are no chains. I do not serve. I reign.” He gave a smile to the boy. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a carton of cigarettes and lit one in the fire.

“Can I have one?”

“You ever smoked before?”


“Alright.” He gave the boy the cigarette. It wobbled in his fingers like a glowing worm as the boy turned the stick, careful of the burning tip. He took a drag and then coughed. He tried to breathe in and coughed again, hard into his hand. The old man gave a laugh as the boy handed back the cigarette, chuckling himself.

“Not quite James Dean.”

“Not quite,” the boy added.

“So, this coffee shop. I used to go two, three times a week. I’d always go when the Nigerian lady was working. She’d always have this brilliant smile when I came in. God, her voice could melt you. She’d say ‘Good morning! How are we?’ I like how she said ‘we,’ like we were friends. I thought about asking her out, you know. That’s between you and me.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I ask myself that all the time.”

“Too nervous?”

“A little. She had another guy lurking over her. He drank coffee everyday. Seemed like he favoured every word from her mouth. I never knew if she liked him back. I didn’t want to interfere in anything.”

“That’s Gus.”


“Yeah. Bit of a creep? Tall with glasses? Everyone knows him. Well, knew him. Left town about a six months ago. No one has seen him since. Some people think he died. Some people think he quit chasing a girl who didn’t love him back.”

“No kidding.”

“She must not have liked him. She’s been as happy as ever.”

“Hm,” he said, interested. “Maybe I’ll have to go back and ask her out.”

The bank behind began to glow. It grew and grew and quickly bloomed into two headlights. They rolled over the bank and bored the dirt decline. The car turned toward the fire, slowed and came to a stop. The headlights dimmed and inside a policeman appeared, lit by the dashboard. He stared hard ahead. The old man gave a heavy sigh, stubbing the cigarette into the dirt, tucking the beer behind his back.

The policeman stepped out of the car and approached the pair. “Joseph?” He said. He approached with cautious steps. “Joseph.”

The boy turned. “Shit.”

“Thank god. I went to your room and couldn’t find you. I’ve been driving all over town. Your Mom is worried sick. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

The father stepped closer. The light from the fire brought out a bruise on his temple, poppy and blue. whilst the boy nursed his knuckles. The father remained quiet as the boy decided to take another sip from the beer, this time with no recoil.

“So, what are you go to say this time?”

“What do you mean, Joe?”

“You know it as well as I do. How this goes. We disagree, we argue, you give a speech about how I’m wrong, how I’m at fault, and I get sent to my room. Then it happens again. We argue some more, you shout over me, I get grounded, you give some big talk the next day and you think things go back to normal.” The boy stood to face his father, matching his height. He held his bag in his hand, the bag that held everything, with the fire burning hot behind him. “What do you have to say this time? What can you say that’s different? What order of words have you ready to convince me to come home?” The boy’s voice shook, rattled with anger.

The father stayed quiet. His eyes to the ground, thumbing his hands.

“What do you have to say? It’s your word, your rules. It always has been. It always will be. Is it, you can’t accept me? Or don’t want to? I’m not the same as you when you were a kid. I’m not going to get straight A’s, fly through college and land a job on the other end. No amount of shouting or anger will help me and you don’t ever seem to understand that.” The boy took a deep breath, tightened his fists, felt the blood race through his body. “What do you have to say?”

The father looked up. He met the fierce gaze of his son. One he was used to. He spoke slowly.

“Nothing. I’ve nothing to say. You know I’ve got a bad temper, and it’s no excuse. It’s taken far too long for me to realise that there’s no excuse. I never tell you about work and what I see. But I do it to protect you and your Mom. I do it so you both feel safe. But I’m so stupid to have brought it home with me. Through impatience. To have done the opposite. To make your home a place you don’t want to be. I’m so sorry – I’m so sorry I hurt you.” His voice quivered. The rain came down hard upon him. “I don’t want to talk. I don’t need to. I want to listen. I want to hear your problems, not project mine. The whole thing about your grades, I was wrong. None of that matters. I don’t care, it’s not important. You’ll be fine no matter what happens in school. You’re smart, you’re quick. You’ll be fine. I just – I want you to be alright with me. So I will always listen. From now on.”

Behind them, the last bus approached. The boy tightened his grip on the strap of his bag, felt his heart thudding in his chest. The bus slowed at the shelter and then accelerated with a quiet hum. He watched it pass and vanish into the night.

The boy had almost forgot the old man sat at his side. He gave him a look. The old man gave him a faint smile. One of reassurance, one of comfort. Silence enveloped the three until the boy shouldered his bag and walked towards his father.


“Okay,” he replied. The boy opened the car door, sat himself down. Shotgun.

Walking to the other side of the car, the father finally looked at the old man. His eyes glanced to the fire, to the beer, to the stubbed cigarette, and then to the print in the dirt where his son had been sitting. How small it looked before the flame, beneath the overpass, dwarfed by the concrete buildings nearby. The father gave a small nod to the old man and got into the car. A beat of relief, a measure of repose filled the air.

The car reversed and drove back over the hill. The sound of the engine faded into the night, leaving the old man alone in the glow of the fire. He was sad to be alone but happy as well to know he would never see the two again. The embers licked the wood, wrapped and twisted around the bark above a belly of yellow and orange and red. His eyes held the light, as they once did, many years ago. He thought of the Nigerian lady who worked in the coffee shop. The heavy regret imbedded his stomach of not remembering her name, not being able to say it out loud and see how it spilled from his tongue.

He hovered his hands to the flames. They tickled his palms, his fingertips. He held them there all night, as he always did.

The Nesbit and Gibley Reveal

Spillwords Press have very kindly asked to get to know Nesbit and Gibley. You can read the interview here in the Spotlight on Writers post. In light of this, as well as being something I’ve been longing to do, it’s time I share more about myself with you.

Nesbit and Gibley started in late 2015. The site is still quite new, considering many of the people I follow on WordPress have been here for much, much longer. At first, it was another place for the writing. If you’re to pen a few pieces, put some ideas together, I always thought I might as well share it, and if even one person reads it and enjoys it, it’d mean a lot, and it’d build my confidence. It’s only a year and a half later and the site is where I never thought it could ever be.

Nesbit and Gibley is a pseudonym I’ve been writing under. Quite different from the usual singular identity most people adopt. I preferred the idea of having essentially two pseudonyms. Nesbit was going to provide the prose, and Gibley the poetry. Two parts of the brain, if you will. I always liked the backstory to a writer, and I liked the idea of two old men finally penning their thoughts after so many years, to get it all out before they passed. This will bring you to the Nesbit and Gibley you know. But it has only ever been me.

I know this won’t be a surprise for some. I’m well aware it’s April Fools Day (Spillwords arranged that!) but I assure you it’s the truth. This won’t change anything about the content of the website, of which many of you are very kindly supporting. The poetry will keep coming, the short stories, too (when I’ve got to finalising them). It may, however, change the voice of which you read the writing, and I hope that’s okay.

As some of you will know, a book is on the way. A poetry collection. Because these are personal poems, of which I hope you’d like to read, it’s only fair I tell you who has written them. If you’re interested, they will lend some light into this little life of mine. That’s not to say the Nesbit and Gibley-isms, the style of writing, will be left from the book. It’s always been me, it always will be.

I’m so grateful for my followers, for your likes and kind comments. I’ve been very lucky to have had my work shared with larger websites, too, who’ve brought in a bigger crowd and spread the Nesbit and Gibleyness further than the site. It’s a real treat to log on and find someone has enjoyed my poetry. The constructive feedback is hugely appreciated, too, as I love to learn and develop my writing.

I know quite a lot about you, reading through the new posts every morning with my toast and coffee (I sometimes have porridge if the mood strikes). I love the writers here, the creators, the photographers, and it’s always lovely to know about the person behind the art. So, the same will be offered, for anyone curious.

My name is Harry Thurston, I’m 26, and I live in Bristol, UK. I work as a green grocer. Here’s a picture of me at a reading. It’s nice to meet you.


(Apologies for the low quality!)

Nesbit Likes: Wolf in White Van by John Darnielle


This week’s Nesbit Likes – as well as the next few – will take a step from poetry and focus on prose. More specifically, novels that have been brilliant reads, each a strong recommendation for your next book.

There are no spoilers below!

To some, Darnielle is well known as the lead singer / songwriter for the band The Mountain Goats. Like Leonard Cohen or Nick Cave, he has shown his beautiful prose in novels, where music is a clear aid to great writing.

The story goes. Main character Sean Phillips runs a play-by-mail roleplaying game called Trace Italian. Strangers from all over the country take part, sending him their decisions and actions and he replies with the consequences, akin a Dungeon Master. It catches wind and a good handful of people take part, which means a lot of work and writing for Sean. Suited for him, as he spends most of his time indoors, leading an introvert life.

But there’s real horror to Wolf in White Van. Told non-chronologically, we slowly learn about Sean and his world. Pieces are put together of a picture we cannot begin to predict. In their practice, crime novels may shape a future, where we suppose the ends will be tied. But there’s no mystery here. Instead, this finished jigsaw puzzle details the dramatic events of his life: we explore his childhood, his adolescence, his experiences with love, his family, how his game, Trace Italian, brought severe peril to two teenagers, and how his face became severely disfigured.

It’s not long after starting this book before you realise the text has sunk it’s hooks, and you’re compelled to continue, eager to find out what Sean isn’t necessarily hiding, but has prepared for you in time. With an unforgettable final act, an ending that has lingered for months, this is a refreshing example of storytelling done well.

The characters are raw and delicate; the delivery is forceful and frightening. With efficient prose, at times wondrous and vivid, this was a brilliant read. Darnielle writes peacefully, with delicious syntax and control, and then he pulls the rug out from under your feet, before you even knew the rug was there.


A short story I posted in August last year. It’s now timely relevant, and I hope you enjoy it! A happy new year to you all!


Hobson is drunk. He says he isn’t, he says he doesn’t get drunk, but he is. I can tell because he’s been looking down at his shoes for the last 30 seconds. As if the imaginary microscopic people living on them will tie his laces together. He told me earlier he was going to marry his girlfriend. He gave me a speech on how he feels like a gentleman now, with his new job, with his new car. He bought himself a nice pair of blue suede shoes to push the pedals. He’s been showing them off all night. He said that’s what mature people do, they wear the attire that represents how they feel. He looks up at the ceiling, burps, and shouts


Angelica smiles at me. A smile that assures me she’s okay. She’s got her arm around Duncan. That’s what she wanted. You’ve always got to kiss someone at midnight, it’s the law, that’s what she told me. She can’t take her eyes off of him. He’s got his eye on Emily but he can’t help it, as it is made of glass.


Edward doesn’t look happy. He’s shouting out the numbers, he’s smiling, he’s got his arms around his rugby mates, but you can tell. It’s not in his eyes or any of that crap. It’s in his hand. Everyone around him carries empty bottles of Sabrina’s home made cherry liqueur but his pint glass is full.


Gordon, Jessica and Lucy are with me. Lucy’s chanting along with everyone else. Enjoying herself. She’s looking well. The last year seems like it had no effect on her. She looks so happy, everyone does. Everyone looks like they have their lives right on track. Lucy has just caught me smiling at her and now she’s smiling back at me. Our connecting gaze forgets her from shouting


You know, I want to change. I want to be a grown up. I want to be happy, or at least look happy, like everyone else. It’s time for a radical shift in lifestyle. I don’t want to wake up at 2 on a weekend, I don’t want to binge any more TV shows, I don’t want to call in sick when I’m hungover. I want to live. Maybe Hobson was right, him and his new clothes, his new attitude, maybe he’s got it right.


Hobson has thrown up.


This is it. I’m going to do it. My life, that is. I’ll do better. I’ll exercise. I’ll cycle to work. I’ll eat vegetables. I’ll only drink on weekends. I’ll write everyday. I’ll go to the gym at least once a month. It’s a fresh start. Seize the day. Carpe diem! Seize the year! Carpe year! And I’ll get myself a girlfriend. Do it right. And it can start right now, because I know the girl and she knows me.


Hobson has thrown up again, onto his shoes.


It’s always been Lucy. Of course it has. Our lunch at Viccino’s last Monday, the week before our movie night, and the week before that Martin’s cocktail extravaganza. They were all peppered with signs of a beautiful, ripe relationship, something that could be really special. Something that could work. I missed it before but it was there, of course it was! She’s the girl.


There’s still time. It’s the law.

Happy new year!

Angelica kisses Duncan.

Emily kisses Roger.

And Lucy, the potential love of my life, kisses Gordon.

Another illegal year.

Hobson has just slipped in his vomit.

Hand me your pint, Edward.

Book Development

Some time ago, I made an announcement about the first Nesbit and Gibley book of poetry being in the works. Shortly afterwards, there was a post regarding a quote that helped develop the book. Since, there’s not been much light shed on it all. So, a quick update…!

The book is reaching the final stages. The themes are down and solidified, the approach, the sequence, too, and the latest draft is out for feedback and review from friends and peers. Whilst some of it has been back and forth, up and down, discarded and retrieved, it really has been a lot of fun writing. The title, at the moment a kept secret, might be posted in the coming weeks, along with some other news. So if you’re interested, stayed tuned!

For some of the poems, I debated their place in the book. Wild Fun was one of them.

It describes a bouncy castle (a bounce house, I’ve heard as the American name for it) escaping a children’s birthday party. It becomes this animal, when free from moorings, that flees in the high winds.

However, it didn’t quite fit in the book, for two reasons. First, because I am lucky enough not to have experienced a fleeting castle (as I’ve heard they can be quite dangerous!) it felt out of place; there may be some elaborate metaphor where this could apply, but the book focuses on the more personal experiences. Second, it was more of a play with language and zoomorphism, something that was a lot of fun to write but never had a home.

Anyway, it’s remained in the early stages, so please forgive the clunkiness I couldn’t rid. It wasn’t doing much sat in the notebook, and while it’s not something at all polished, I hope you enjoy it!

(There’s a few more poems that didn’t make the book, all of which will most likely be shared in the forthcoming weeks.)

Wild Fun

Seven years of a life in safety,
no broken arms, sprained ankles,
allergies, divorcing parents,
nothing to give the boy reason
to notice
that the beast behind,
wobbling and waving,
gurgling his friends,
has begun to crawl.
The moorings wormed
their way out long ago.

The wind accelerates, bucking the children
out the front onto the lawn
and the castle
charges forward.

The women climb to clutch their kin
as the men dive
for the slithering string,
hissing through the grass.
It escapes their fingertips,
the steeple horns flee
their grips, and the creature
wrangles bushes and bramble
in a glorious gallop.

It lands and lunges,
trampling the marquee,
buffeting the buffet,
sandwiching the sandwiches.
In full liberation from the ties, it tumbles
in a showcasing stride, the toothpicks teeth
the coloured hide and fly
as it bounds over the stone wall,
armadillos down the bank,
kicking out the paper plates and plastic cups
in a flurry of festive arcs.

Some count the children
while others take to the coast,
rallying the wind and decline,
watching their rented thing
scuttle and scamper across the sand
before sliding onto the water.

Not much to do now but watch it sail
toward the bobbing buoys
on the aqua green sea.
Free at last.

“Everyone inside,” she says,
as she feeds the children
through the patio doors,
capturing the excited ones by their arms.
They calm and their tears are dried
while she serves them each a cheesy pizza slice.