Welcome to the second instalment of the Creased Spine Bookshelf. A regular post listing what I’ve read that’s had a positive impact on me. This month features plenty of dark … Continue reading The Creased Spine Bookshelf – March

Welcome to the second instalment of the Creased Spine Bookshelf. A regular post listing what I’ve read that’s had a positive impact on me. This month features plenty of dark … Continue reading The Creased Spine Bookshelf – March
I’ve teamed up with the fine folk at A Great Read to bring my followers a great deal on books. We are offering 15% off orders over £15 placed through … Continue reading 15% Discount on Books
This is something new that I’d like to try out for a while. I’m reading so many cracking stories that I feel compelled to shout about them. So, here we … Continue reading The Creased Spine Bookshelf – February 2021
“Twelve grisly new tales of fur and fury in this brand new anthology of werewolf stories. Liam Hogan’s The Mortsafe, full of gothic darkness, Holly Rae Garcia’s Werewolf’s Lament (because … Continue reading Call of the Wyld
If a virus infected all animals and made them inedible to humans what would we do? In Agustina Bazterrica’s novel (translated by Sarah Moses), we adapted and legitimised cannibalism. Except … Continue reading Reviewed: Tender Is The Flesh
Kitchen Sink Gothic: “tales of darkness and horror, of the supernatural and the weird within the overall framework of the social realism of the kitchen sink drama.” – David Riley, … Continue reading Kitchen Sink Gothic 2
Inspired in part, by the downgrading of exam grades in British schools this week, Too Late Now was written as a way of venting my anger and frustration at the stupidity of Mankind.
Probably because of the urgency I felt, prose did not seem the correct medium and so I chose poetry. To me a poem should, whatever its subject, pack a punch.
After it has rested, I may look at the poem again and rework it, hopefully make improvements. However, it felt right to share with you this raw version.
Three O’s at eight o’clock each night
echo about the red brick walls
with the ghost of a love that comes
haunting with a buried hand squeezed tight.