Fame.mp3

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, taking photos, ‘No one reads my blog anyway,’ and she laughed like I was joking.

My God, how is it almost May?

Well, a lot’s happened since I last posted here. The Omicron variant kicked our booster shots in the teeth, then all the armchair epidemiologists became experts in Russian/Ukrainian relations and the Tories ramped their brand up to 11, lying under oath and smirking at our grief.

Keep it light, Parlett. This is supposed to be an advertisement.

Continue reading “Fame.mp3”

Monsters #1 | Prologue. Part One. | Eighties racist hatred.

I’ve ummed and ahhed about whether or not to upload this as is or to just re-record it, but I’m thinking I’m happy with what this is – my first attempt at a reading from ‘Monsters.’

My concerns are that it’s rough as all fuck and hardly up to the quality of an audiobook, but then even the act of doing something – even if it may be futile – is still very good for your mental health.

Continue reading “Monsters #1 | Prologue. Part One. | Eighties racist hatred.”

Eight Stories in an Evening

I asked friends to give me a word each so I could build a story from three. It just seemed like a good idea because wine and I’m not saying these wee tales are any good but they made me feel good writing them and that was lovely, thank you. Written in six hours or so, so go easy.

 

SLUG SUGAR SWEAT

They called it a slug, you know, that round that goes in the gun or whatever. I called it a bullet and they all sniggered, sniggered at how I held it, how the sweat poured down my face as I aimed the cursed thing.

One thing’s for damned sure – ain’t no one gonna be callin’ me sugar no more.

 

Continue reading “Eight Stories in an Evening”

Tinder. A Sociopathic Short Story.

The photo showed a woman whose make-up struggled to cover the years, let alone the rest. She clung proudly to a rough looking teen I assumed was her son. The little treasure himself wore a glare that said, ‘Don’t you dare even think about fucking my mum.’

I swiped right.

Game on, ladies.

Words from a writer too stubborn to fail

…would make for a great epitaph, no?

Anyway, and stop me if you’ve heard this one before, but a few years ago, when I’d moved back to the UK, I started sending out copies of my second book to literary agents (it was smaller, so cheaper to post) with nothing to signify who it was from or why but for “Please HELP me!” scrawled with a black Sharpie on the stark white of the cover.

My website was printed small by the barcode on the back at right angles to the jacket text and such was my naive, unfucked brain still fresh back in the fire that I felt anyone reading this GENIUS would want to seek him out and anyone WORTHY of representing him would be both able and willing, nay delighted to work their way through these cunning yet intriguing layers of mystery. Continue reading “Words from a writer too stubborn to fail”

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