The Heat of the Dead

We hit the streets pretty hard; sirens screaming through the streets with the screech of our tyres burning off a few layers echoed not too far behind. Truth is, this wasn’t a matter for us; I mean how often do you hear of a woman calling the fire brigade because of locking herself in her flat? But unfortunately, in our line of service, we don’t get to pick our battles. No matter how stupid they might be. Especially not since our budgets have come under surveillance because of all the years and stories of cats stuck in fucking trees. So now, everything is an emergency and our time is heavily monitored. Lieutenant Oxbridge delegated a small chunk of the budget to repairs and tyres. But had to slash our overtime, not to mention sick pay. And that’s my - and of course other peoples’ - problem right now. I was on paid sickness suspension for the past four months, visiting a psychologist and about ten different doctor’s, all with their own unique theories on what dosage should be crammed down my throat. Of course none of it has helped. How can it? You can cram all the dextropropoxyphene, codeine and  fentanyl down my throat that you want, and it can numb the feeling, but that still leaves the other four senses to remember.

Sure enough as we tilt around the next corner on our twelve-street journey, I feel my nostrils flaring at the stench of the crimson fires. My skin radiates the heat and toasts under the gentle licking of the flames caressing the soft skin of my arms. Shivers ripple through my spine, slamming goosebumps out of their way as they shoot up my back, leaving a pimply runway from my lower back to the tip of my neck. My eyes began to dart furiously; were we on fire? No. But the smell was intoxicating, it must be right outside. Spluttering out a cough of fumes, I tore my eyes around my surroundings, where is it? There. A small little bungalow set ablaze, the sillhouttes of a mother in her late twenties frantically pounding on the reinforced windows that were designed with the specific purpose of protecting her family from any wanton intruders. I had to get out. I had to help her.
“Pull over” I thought I said to Nic, before clasping and pummelling the door handle.
And just like that, the burning stopped. All her screams evaporated, and all I could hear was my own tortured screams and the rapid clicking of a locked door handle straining against the muscles of a 32 year old fireman, and the feeling of tears that had rolled long ago down my face and now nestled and semi-dried themselves out in my five o’clock shadow. I chanced opening my eyes and saw Nic staring me down. His hazel eyes strangle cold, no concern, no confusion. Just sick of my bullshit I guess. I can’t say I blame him. I figure we’ve stopped the truck now because of my hysterics rather than reaching to our destination, so I slide out the trusty bottle of dextro and tossed a couple of pills down my throat; exaggerating each action of the whole affair, before throwing Nic a contorted fake smile to show I knew what he was thinking and I was fine. He cracked a disbelieving smile and pulled out again and flicked back on the sirens as I practised my best face for any public we may have to deal with.

Crackling of a fire rippled against my ears again, but this time the screeching of our tyres told me this one was real, so I found my pulse and massaged it down to a calm poker face, before flicking up the door lock and stepping out of the truck and started adjusting my jacket to give of an impression that we rushed straight to the scene without any delay - like I said, impressions are everything today.

Routine started to take control as I slammed the door shut and started to walk along the polished sides of the truck to open the side and start tugging loose some hose lining without so much as a glance to the job at hand. But I managed to fight it, taking only the first couple steps before contorting my body to face the blazing inferno of the day; it was a tower block. The kind you see erected in the four corners of every rough neighbourhood across the country; as if trying to contain our scum of the universe with 13 storeys of pensioners and immigrants. I scan my eyes quickly over each window of every storey and assess the damage. Nearby I hear people mumbling about how good I look. Guess I scrub up good for a fuckup. Must be the uniform I smirk, people always love the uniform. I pretend to tune it out as I buzz Nic over the radio to tell him exactly the situation, but I train my ears very much on the gathered audience all muttering excitedly about the devastation and throwing out their own theories of how it happened and hypothesise over what they would do to save hypothetical people trapped in the blaze if they could get the chance and wouldn’t just stand around like we are, wasting time. I can’t help but smile though as it just reminds me of myself back when I used to care, and for a brief shining moment a flicker of passion erupts in my stomach in a glorious spark of optimism, only to immediately be extinguished by my stomach acid. I remember when the sight of the chaos would excite me, and now even the wildest turret of flames are just a statistic calculation to my eyes. If I ever got around to watching that DVD “The Towering Inferno” Holly bought a couple months back, I’d probably be looking past the antics of Paul Newman and Steve McQueen, and instead be commenting to myself bitterly about how an electrical fire like that wouldn’t react that way in such a situation. I guess that’s why Holly and I haven’t managed to watch anything together in so long, no matter how often she catches her lips mumbling the endless ream of pictures she would like to be taken to go and see.


Nic is on crowd detail on this one, and god help them. Nic’s a nice guy, and his heart is in the right place, but he doesn’t do well with people. Last year, the department received 72 negative comments from the general public, and just under 30 of them were for Nic. He just gets these crazy eyes when he gets excited, and starts breathing vocally and it puts people on edge. Honestly, I want to tell him to take this one and I’ll do the ever impossible line of hurling buzz phrases “Get back!” “Nothing to see” and “Move along” to our adoring fans; the fact that I get surrounded by fires to make me sweat out a panic attack just sat in a car should be sign enough I’m not ready to step inside a 13 goddamn storey blaze, but no, that’s not how Head Office currency sees it. They see a schmoe on medication and think the task he should be kept away from, is public interaction. Throw another crazy onto the fire, is their motto. Well I’m lying, it probably isn’t, but you get the idea.

I maintain my public grimace of false hope, nothing to see here comradery as I slide open the back and grab the essentials and clip everything in place; my SCBA Air Bottle (never leave home without it!), two cheap miniature bottles of flame retardent (not strictly regulation, but I just feel a little safer having something that could require a mosquito bite of assistance in a third degree situation) that I quickly cram into my inner pocket out of sight and under heated protection within the beige turnout jacket, and finally my own PASS - a little sort of motion tracker to activate in case of any emergency that pinpoints my location and surrounding area via technology stuff to help the Colonel guide me out incase of any dire visibility-destroyed events. After running my gloved fingers over my body, fine-checking everything was ticked off and raring to go, spun my helmet off the rack and dunked it on my head, before turning on my heel, scooped up the fire hose and marched dutifully toward the tower block inferno.

The sound of my boot tearing the reinforced door - after I was ensuring I was safe from any potential back draft naturally - ripped through the air like a thunderclap before the door slammed onto the concrete flooring. Gingerly I stepped inside and pressed my back against the wall as I made my way along the hallway, although the fire was mostly located on the 11th floor, it doesn’t hurt to be weary when passing the string of almost barn-door-esque storage units for the flats above.

Muffled screams of panic drifted down the corridor and lightly vibrated inside my padded helmet, so hauntingly soft I daren’t place a bet on whether these were real, or another apparition. I shrugged off my pessimism - I’d taken my pills, so I should be safe from any unwanted visitors and tricks, but I could still quite easily just be losing my mind - and I sped up my shuffle along the now seemingly never-ending corridor before ducking into the stairwell. I know faced another one of my dilemmas; the smoke would be at it’s thickest on the top floors by now, so should I head straight up, and work my way down to safety, or do I play it safe and just work my way up the first few floors and just write the top floors off as either safe or KIA? No time to deliberate, so I immediately scoot to the first door on the ground level as I see how it goes - regardless of whether or not I wanna play hero, I might as well spend my time thinking dealing with the doors here. I hover my hand several inches in front of the varnished and untarnished frame testing for heat. It’s warm, but definitely not to the touch. I trade my extended hand for a boot as I lunge it to the door and hear the hinges splint slightly with a mighty crack. I turn to a shoulder barge for the final push through. A gust of cool breeze welcomes me in with a loving embrace and I take a refreshing inhale before I ask with an elevated voice;
“Any survivors?”
Silence.
“Hello?” I repeat, as I start to trudge across the cracked laminate flooring into the lounge spacing. The walls are an offsetting beige-cream and blood red, and densely decorated throughout with a medley of photos and framed artwork. The happy faces of a beautiful mother and two children stare up at me compacted behind a wedge of fogged up glass, with an array of crooked children interpretations of Disney princesses assault my senses. I follow the breeze through to the bedroom, where I see a soft and inviting Queen-sized bed splattered with fragments of window pane; the flower-patterned duvet utilised as a draft excluder against the door that would lead into the children’s bedrooms. This mother knew what she was doing, and for a moment I projected my interpretation of what must have happened onto the scene in front of me and I follow it methodically as the ghostly initial scent of smoke drifts up to the sleeping mother, jerking her from her dream of a father figure for the kids that will do them right, the bead of panic oozing from her forehead and trickling down her cheek as she gathers her senses, before her instincts take over and she pounces from the bed like a ravenous cheetah to the children’s room, snapping the door open, shaking the children awake and coaxing them out of bed - grabbing one small cuddly toy each from their crumbing stash to help focus their attention as she leads them to the bedroom. She shuts the door, drapes the duvet over the children as she takes that alarm and fulfils every morning fantasy by hurtling it through the window overlooking the bed; the occasional glass shard bouncing off the four foot flower-patterned lumps that stand patiently by her side. She flicks the sheet off the children and rolls it up under the door, before gently lifting the children on the bed one at a time and talking them through as she helps push them through the window before undoubtedly taking one last longing debate of any possessions she could risk taking with her before deciding better judgement and simply hopping through. The scenario is a beautiful depiction of human integrity that does for a moment put a smile on my face as I think; for every individual spark we as humans have, in a life-threatening situation such as a fire, we all become the same sheep, predictable down to the last hesitant glances at our prized treasures.

Of course there are exceptions, as the fourth and final door of this floor kindly reminds me. The room is a putred assortment of filth and expired foods breeding new life forms, matted into the tacky worn through carpet. The window here is still intact, behind  the nailed in curtains that blanket them, but the place is remarkably barren; cracked shelving with a dust-free tv-spacing, and dangling spare cables trailing along the floor from a torn-out-the-wall xbox. This man (there was no mistaking this to be a man, thanks to his airing laundry draped along the breakfast bar atop a grease-deteriorating pizza box, had spared no expense in prioritising and had clearly waddled through on what must have been - judged by what I assumed to be a weight of approximately 15 stone of belly fat - no less than four visits to gather his prized possessions. And not once would this morbidly obese bastard have gone to check on his family of three down the hall because he just had to ensure he could continue knifing ‘noobs’ on Black Ops II’s latest dlc pack. A moist grimy layer of disgust coated the inside of my stomach as I dwelled on this fuckhead. And I returned to the hallway ready for the next step in this mission.

“Nic this is Korben Leigh, do you read me over.”
One very long beat of silence.
“This is Nic, Korben I read you, how’s the clearout going? …Over.”
“I have sweeped around the ground floor, it seems everybody has got out, I’m going to make my way upstairs. Can you see any priority hotspots to aim from outside? I’m not too sure how long we can hold out for with The Fog. Over.”
Several painful beats of exasperated exhaling.
“Uh yeah, Korben, there appears to be a couple of possible silhouettes up on the.. Seventh floor. Could easily be justy a plant or something from this distance, but that’s something to go on. Over.”
“Alright Nic, thanks. I’m gonna make my way up now. Over and out.”
The radio complained as I flicked it off and fastened it back into it’s holster across my belt buckle and took the stairs; my new plan of operation - head straight to the seventh floor, shouting through the halls, and then work my way back a little more thoroughly.

As my boots echoed up to the fourth floor however, this plan had completely blinked from my mind and instead I started to move gingerly as the charring smoke and embers started to appear and danced around my receding hairline, I found myself talking idly to myself. I may not be much of one for conversation, but I am a good listener for idiot’s prattling away; and that was certainly what I felt like doing right now. I’d recount to you now what I was saying, but honestly it was just a string of words rather than any cohesive sentences. I was just throwing words to the dartboard of my eardrums and seeing what stuck; largely Korben. Calm. Fire. Families. Pain. Mistake. Her.

By the time I hit the fifth floor I could no longer tell if it was pools of sweat gushing down my features, or a river of tears that I was blindingly flicking into the visor of my helmet. Even though the medication was suppressing her apparitions, that girl was still etched so perfectly into my mind that I might as well not fucking bother. They block off the smell and the touch sense of the fiery ordeal but what goddamn use is that when I’m stuck in a burning building anyway? They need to get rid of the memory, I don’t want to see her anymore. I can’t see her anymore. A small clattering of plastic shells and the ruffle of my jacket and trousers indicate that I’ve fallen to my knees at the top of the stairs now, just shamelessly sobbing to myself. I’ve ran it over and over in my head every single moment of every single day, but this is the first moment I’ve let my mind dwell on the situation in it’s entirety, and it’s killing me.


As I woke up from a nap that had glazed across the day, I slowly clawed my way up into a sitting position from the cream leather couch I had apparently fallen victim to, and forcefully massaged my pupils into focus with the balls of my smooth, hairless fists. The blaring colours from the broad-boxed television set counteracted my feeble attempts with it’s own assault of slightly fuzzy pixels imprinting vivid shapes of cartoon characters into the insides of my eyelids as my palms worked their magic. Eventually I won the battle for vision, and peeled the purple fleece I had apparently cocooned myself in, before I thudded slightly on the beautifully cool wood panel flooring and scampered to the kitchen, leaving small sweaty imprints shrinking into the rivets of the flooring.

I poured myself a glass of water from the kitchen taps, almost letting it overflow before managing to wrestle the tap to a halt, and made my way back to my groove in the couch and nestled myself in, cradling my glass in my arms before slowly, very slowly, succumbing to sleep again. But this time as the sandman swept me up, my arms drooped limply and the glass tipped to the floor before cracking against the 4-way adapter plug pulled halfway across the flooring. A miniature firework display erupted instantly from the socket; gusseting smoke to pool around its impressive display. The fizzling soon ignited into flame that pawed effortlessly at the laminate boards, before running across the plug cable to the television set; the flame momentarily disappearing as it sucked into the monitor, before a prompt explosion flung the white hot shards of glass towards my slumping figure; impaling fragments into my cheeks before biting into the muscle tissue and imprinting themselves across my face, and a few shards tumbling down my pyjamas, left to fizzle menacingly at me as I tore from my dreams howling in pain. As I tried to swallow the pain, my eyes watched the confusing collage of orange and yellow dancing around my TV, and my mind began scribbling reams and reams of ideas, but refused to space the options out and instead just wrote each consecutive idea over one another at such impeccable speed, within milliseconds I was rooted to the spot as my nervous system desperately tried to decode the scribbles they had been marked to take to all extremities. My heart ceased its war to rip through my ribcage and came to a complete halt. My blood drifted to a slow stop throughout my body, and my temperature - despite the now blistering heat bubbling at my skin - began to drop, leaving the only thing moving in my body now, an army of goosebumps rippling around me.
My mother’s voice drifted through my ears; her screams of my name censored under the shellshock and drone of the rumbling inferno, and then I felt her slender claws wrap firmly around my arm - artistically designed and crafted talons shredding through maybe two layers of skin as she pulls me from the trance and tries to fly me to door. I’m a lot more aware of my body now, and the talon indentations start to throb slightly, as my mother begins to punch violently at the smoke slowly throttling her as she flips the little wooden mail table over, running her fingers across the floor, as if reading Braille directions to the door keys. The tips of my stubby little fingers begin to tingle as the blood pools into them from spending so long frozen in place but I do nothing about it. But moments into the frantic searching, we both perk up an extra six inches and bob our heads about as if we had suddenly devolved into meercats as a flaring siren’s call beckons us to the window.  The fire licks our skin longingly as we dart to windows and peer through for the screeches of hope. I hear my mum mutter some unspeakable words under her breath about having the family protection installation over our windows, meaning we were powerless to break through. My oval eyes swung around the frames, following the siren before we eventually see it. Instinct takes over and our hands start beating against the double glazing with every oozing sweat of desperation in our bodies. The fireman stepped out from his van and he gathered his equipment, but as he sprinted across the tarmac field in front of our bungalow, a rogue breeze flung the vicious tongues against my pyjamas, and embers ran their way up my clothing with feverish excitement. Then all of a sudden the blistering agony numbed into nothingness…


“Fuck!” I woke up, spluttering and wheezing out of breath, now back in my 37 year old body; feeling much more decrepit and creaky than I remember, with another two coatings of sweat sheathing it. I don’t know how long I must have been trapped in that memory before the crackle of my surroundings scorched me back to reality, but what did stun me was how different this one was. This wasn’t the girl coming into my life now and bringing with her, her horrific fate, I felt it now. I was the one in the fire. I was the one who I let down and watched as the lights in my eyes flared out. My eyes began to read the space around me, as my hand clasped to the railing. Ironically the coolness of it is what reassured me this was reality, in this tower block inferno, and I flicked my fringe of sweat off my forehead and gathered myself to my full 5’9’’ height and jogged my way along the corridor, wheezing out my chants of ‘Hello?’ and spluttering exhaustion and fear into the increasingly thick layer of smoke that was now beginning to encapsulate me from the torso upwards. My voice began to harmonise and struggle to keep a tune as my mind became preoccupied with the intense vision.
“Help!”
The screams cracked through my helmet, and echoed against my ears. Was it real? Or was it just the girl again? I couldn’t be sure. Not yet.
“Hello?” my voice boomed in response with a quiver shaking through the brave façade I tried to adopt.
This time the voice just screamed in response and trickled off into desperate sobbing.
“Where are you?!” I bellowed and began to pace towards the staircase to the next floor, ears pricked back ready to follow that voice. “Where are you?!” I repeated with the last ounce of dominance I could muster.
“73!” She screeched between her howls.
My ears tried to track the screams, and my body ran up the staircase, with my ears locked onto the rails of the sound waves created.

Crack! The frame splintered into my shoulder and I fell through the door after the failed shoulder-barge, and a whoosh of heat punched behind me like a blizzard. The fire had very obviously taken place on this floor in a neighbouring flat. It’s a goddamn miracle this woman will be alive.
Remains of door frame slid from my back as I once more gathered to my feet, coughing and heaving dust and fragments of door in my way. I took a quick look back at the frame and noticed that some of the door was still locked in place, almost certainly what probably prevented the occupant’s escape. I couldn’t chance much of an analysis though; the smoke was tapping on my helmet and trying to prise it open, so can only imagine the abseiling it must be doing down this woman’s throat right now, so I shrugged off the last remaining shards and polish sinew, and took a couple of cumbersome steps across the narrow hallway into the lounge.
“Hello?” I began to boom, cutting of with an exhausted cough. “My name is Korban Leigh, I’m with the fire department. I’m gonna get you out of here.”
I began my personal guided tour along the turquoise nightmare, panting slightly from anxiety and fatigue, and found myself inhaling sweat that now trickled down my lungs with a few rogue air particles every time I breathed. Although the visor of my helmet was finally beginning to crack under the pressure and hide itself behind a few rhythmic scratches and a cloud of condensation, I couldn’t help but notice how bare this place was. Sure there were bookshelves and entertainment units, but it all felt unsettlingly sterile. No ornate decorations, no personal photographs, not even a painting - this entire room had the distinct vibe of the mock-up half-room shown at a DS Leisures type setting; too afraid to create any real spark of personality lest it dare offend someone. As I stepped by the dark brown leather sofa, I seized the moment and dropped to a crouch to keep my head down under the smoke ceiling coating, and tear my helmet off, snatch the doily draped over the middle cushion and violate it’s purity as I grind every last layer of grim and sweat off my face before tossing back onto the couch - why bother to take care when it’s just gonna burn anyway? Besides, it’d probably more insulting if I had put it back perfectly as if nothing had happened, better to be upfront with it.

I push on, a great deal of disinterest joining the tour with me through this staling environment, my helmet clasped firmly in my mitts; letting every possible second of breeze dance past my pores with only the warning being the mild spasms of a couple of the grouchier old man muscles cramping in my spine, disapproving strongly of the need to hunch under the smoke for any given time. A thing mist of smoke is still filtering through my lungs, not enough for any damage just enough to tickle out a cough or two, as I push into the kitchen and my pupils jump back into the backs of my eyes in shock as they adjust to the devastation before them; the room itself is screaming with personality, assaulting from every single angle - the decorative array of knifes, spatulas, and other oddities of cooking, the vibrant colours splattered across the walls and bread bin, the personalised coffee, tea and sugar pots; the sparkling white fridge almost completely adorned by every fridge magnet made by man from around the world, this was one hell of a contrast to the rest of this person’s capsule of a flat. The other oddity was a small lump of shivering black fire retardant fabric vibrating incessantly against the freezer door, flashing repressed memories of the shiver-inducing Nicole Kidman vehicle The Others. Repressing as much of a shudder as I could manage, I reached out to clasp the sheet whilst softly grunting;
“Don’t worry ma’am, I’m with the fire department. I am going to get you out of here.”
I pulled the sheet off the shivering wreck and our eyes met; mine slowly managing to quiver into semi-focus views, but even through the gust of smoke and almost-Parkinsons-level sight, I could see this woman was astoundingly beautiful. My lungs weighed the pros and cons of allowing an entire exhale of oxygen in astonishment. They conceded, and for what felt like an eternity the air I had been pooling in my lungs flooded from my chapped lips, and although this moment lasted an eternity for me, there was a little part of me that knew it wasn’t for her and I was probably just looking like another mesmerised creep in her existence, and forced composure on myself and extended my clammy yet thankfully gloved hand to her. She sized me up in a moment, almost as if sceptical of my help, before slipping her delicate fingers betwixt my kevlared mitts, and hoisted herself up before breaking her hand free.

“I’m - I’m with the fire department ma’am, I’m here to get you out of here.” I stammered with a quivering authority.
She crackled a half smile for a moment at my fumbling communications before asserting her own authority;
“Danielle. I have no idea how this all happened, I was just in the kitchen when all of a sudden the ceiling came crashing down and then there was this fire spreading and I couldn’t escape!”
I extended an arm to hug her reassuringly but she met it with a flinch, so I quickly withdrew.
“It’s okay, uh, Danielle. The fire doesn’t seem to have hit anything major, and is mostly contained. We should be fine. But we’ll need to move fast.”
At as-close-to-lightning-speed as an early 30s on heavy meds would allow, my hand latched on to my bag and tore off the miniature mask for such occasions, and extended once more, this time with a faint twitch of nerves to Danielle. She slid it from me and quickly flicked it over her curls, and without another word we both made our way into the halls at a gingery pace. The smoke now consuming the atmosphere like an overweight man who sits exactly in front of you in a theatre, leaving only the skirts of vision a possibility, made the next four minutes of inching along the hall tense and grating, with the muffled crackling of a raging blaze and playful popping of splintering wood entwining with the throaty gulps of air our masks were filtering through, adding an unwelcome soundtrack to the ordeal.

My mind was racing about her, almost as intoxicating as the fumes we were wading through. I was getting noticeably lightheaded, but passed off slowing down to a crawl as merely precautionary measures. I couldn’t even tell you why she was affecting me so much; of course I knew she was beautiful - she was fucking stunning - but this wasn’t romance swelling inside me, Hell, it was barely lust given the pathetic state of my libido. There was just something truly, and terrifyingly, unerotically asphyxiating about this woman. And then a sharp needle pricked under the skin of my chest, and it became all to clear why this was so excruciating to me. I had to get out of there.

As we veered the corner to the stairwell, my gloved hand felt a little heavier as it became burdened with a slender and dainty companion, and I felt some of the lesser organs inside fail under the pressure, and with a desperate wheeze, I grasped tightly and against any better judgement flew down the staired. The smoke grew thicker and thicker in our blurred rush, meaning even the cornered vision allowed to us became questionable, until a sudden shatter, whoosh of brimstone and scorching of bright night lights told me that in another twenty feet we would be safe and our connection would be over.
 

As Danielle sat in the ajar doors of the waiting Ambulance, sucking oxygen to steady the adrenaline and clouded lungs she was no doubt recuperating from, as a medic stealthily wrapped her in a warm, beige sarcophagus blanket, and neatly dabbed at a couple of minor burns and cuts freckled across her pore-less skin, I lay in my passenger seat of the Fire Engine, head imprinting into the headrest and eyelids straining through each other, my insides bleeding through exasperation.
“Nice work in there, Korben” Nice boomed with curious insincerity as his monstrous palms pounded my chest in approval as he clambered back into the truck, before firing the ignition and we pulled away, ready to return the truck and get a good night’s insomnia ready for tomorrow to start it all over again.

Helluva night.

Preparation For A Colonoscopy Part III: The Doctor Will See Inside You Now..

So in I walked, greeted by a small tv screen, a machine that goes Ping! and two doctors, one of whom was smiling. This would be the good Doctor who had already talked over my feelings earlier, now appearing much cheerier with a camera cable in his hand. I was instructed to hop on to the bed they had wheeled in ready for me, lift up one of the three fashionable dresses I had been given to protect as much modesty as I could, and get comfy.

I lay on my side and took a sip of gas, like a connoisseur of a fine wine, swilling the gas around. It was a duff year I thought as I felt no effects to speak of. But maybe there had been, afterall nothing had gone in yet. And so I waited..

And waited...

...Nope, the gas didn't affect anything.

Honestly after the initial shock and couple of pushes after, it didn't hurt. It wasn't comfortable by any stretch of the imagination and did feel a strong will inside my butt to push, but at least I was getting used to it and I didn't even need the fake-help of the gas for the most part. I just found myself watching the camera fascinated. It wasn't gripping television by many conventions, but after 10 years of waiting it would be nice to physically see the culprits that had caused so much hassle.

"Just one big bend now to go.." promised the Doctor as he slammed the camera repeated into the sides of my intestines, forcing it to curve the bend it was so reluctant to follow. At this point pain was spazming into place, and the gas flooded my lungs with deep long breaths. Still no help. I felt my temple going numb with pain, and my vision unfocused as I struggled a bit to breathe from the pain. I asked repeatedly to pause so I could just relax.
"Okay sure" lied the the Doctor before pushing again. Did he not think I'd notice?!
"Please just stop!"
"Look we're almost there now, and if you ask to stop then it will all be for nothing. I don't want this tl be a waste of time.. for you." he pushed, both verbally and violatingly.
Great. I'm an afterthought about my own ass!
"OW!" I growled, making my point. "No stop."
"But we're almo-"
"Yes. Yes. I understand. But no. No! I can't do it anymore."
The Doctor sighed for a moment. "This is why you should have just let me put the needle in you."
He started to retract, and my lower region felt like it was taking the single biggest crap of its life. The pure spite that laced his comment was nothing as I watched him snap up some samples which I had felt on entry looked somewhat suspicious.
With a last tug I was free, and the Doctor busied himself wiping away at the camera and the nurse who had taken my side a bit during the struggle talked me through it before I was wheeled away to recover in the Room of Flatulance.


They tell you repeatedly in reassurance that you WILL need to fart, and a lot, and not to hold it in. However the confused state of my bowels led each and every one a strong contender in the game of "please dont be wet.. please dont be wet.." and I and the other 2 remaining contestants of the game played a particularly lazy interpretaiton of musical chairs.

Feeling slightly safer in my own clothes  after a quick change, I took myself away from the bed and toward the chairs by reception on the ward as I awaited my apology orange juice and ham sandwiches. The dryness of my throat made chewing a task unto itself, but 24 hours with my body on an everything must go sale pushed me through and I wolfed down my sandwich in whole chunks, not unlike a seal and sipped away at my orange as much as I could without the problem of additional gas in the blimp.

I was given a letter to take home with me for my doctor, talking about how "uncooperative" I had been during my time there, and of "nothing suspicious" was found in my perfectly functional intestines. It took another three weeks for me to receive another letter. Not from Doctor No-Means-Yes, but from another, informing me of the results of the 'perfectly ordinary' samples taken during my uncooperative investigation. The results was forming the opinion that I was infact a sufferer of Crohn's Disease, and another appointment was scheduled to confirm at the start of 2015.

And so concludes my trilogy of experience with a Colonoscopy. Hope it was insightful to some at least. And hope it helps prepare for outcomes and affects, without demonising the event itself. Honestly for all the problems with Doctor Violation, I wouldn't hesitate for too long were another necessary... if I could have an alternative to Moviprep. That drink was the nadir of experience and not one I would ever wish to revisit.

The Fictitious Truth

As some of your may know, I am currently writing a second novel, my first fiction to be released, based on the 2007 independent feature Midnight Heat by Brad Jones. But what you may not be aware is that this is not the only project I have on the line at the moment.

Currently under the working title of The Life & Times of Dermot Cummins, this is to be my sci fi 'epic' in the vain of a Red Dwarf or Douglas Adams. There were elements of the plot I have mentioned to some people to test the vibe somewhat and the reaction I mostly received was praise for my imagination. And that left me wracked with guilt somewhat. And so here is my confession piece. A kiss-and-tell for writer's if you will.

The best fiction is non-fiction.

What I mean by that is whilst all works have some personal stamp affected indirectly by their creators that would not have been present should anyone else have got it (which is why remakes that try and stick too close to the source material suffer the Uncanny Valley effect) it is also true that many writer's write their own lives and character encounters into their fiction to an astounding level. Some become famous such as Arthur Miller's The Crucible. And yet these always get remembered as isolated incidents. A product of a time where one could only talk through allegory for fear of execution. But I find that still continues today to no end. So here I plan to explore the process of how this works, using my own work as an example..

It started with an little chip on the shoulder before I had even thought of publishing my first book, my struggle with jobcentre who had by this time suspended my account over non-attendance due to a court summons for a debt I didn't even have. This type of scenario was regular enough of an occurance that the incident was not surprising, and had even talked on a number of occasions to my MP in regards to the issues. I had been told I should write a book, a big slutty name-and-shame of all these incidents I'd had to log for discourse with the MP, and I kind of liked the idea but feared the notion of a stroppy council kicking up a bit of extra hassle in retaliation.

So I thought to play it safe. What if I changed the names of those involved? Now it was instantly a fictional story of made up character with a part time job and his struggles with job centre. Hm this solved the issue but it needed to be a bit punchier.
So what if we swap the job? Instead of a merchandiser of clipstrips and tights, now he was a plumber - much more indentifiable and builds up a new set of character traits to go with my own (which in turn automatically makes it a  three dimensional character that is pretty easy to get into the mindset of for situations).
Now change the date. Add 1000 years.

Three small changes and what has that left us with so far?

A part-time plumber struggling for work is suddenly blocked from finance from the jobcentre for 'too many earnings' on his 4 hour a week job. So now he has to travel the galaxy in search of any given work he can to make ends meet.

Now we just need to swap the "jobcentre" for something a little more general, such as The Federation.

A part-time plumber struggling for work is suddenly blocked from finance from the Federation for 'too many earnings' on his 4 hour a week job. So now he has to travel the galaxy in search of any given work he can to make ends meet.

See how far removed from reality it already sounds? And of course this aspect of the plot is just the jumping off point for a bigger story. But the same is true of characters. I find it's easier to use an existing person in mind, use their name for the first draft to keep them fresh in your mind as you write descriptions / think how this person will react in that particular situation, and remember to find more apt names on a redraft.

Congratulations with the smallest of tweaks you have taken a simple complaint to the dole office into a galaxy-traversing sci fi adventure with a stronger vibe of Firefly than Wigan.

So what are your thoughts on this? Did it help at all, or am I barmy, or did you just completely not give a crap?  Comment below for a discussion, or;
Tweet me at @Chromosoner
or email at mpwilliamson@live.co.uk

For a nosy at my artwork, use the link here: https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/NerdistStore

And if you would like a copy or just to nosey at the free-bit) of my novel From The Inside Out, click here

Behind Closed Pages of From The Inside Out

When I was a little kid, I would buy 3-packs of these shiny notebooks. They all had a scaled patten to them, and shimmered in a vaguely different colour; one a little more green, one a little blue. and the other a bit pink, but otherwise they were identical. I got these and would make a project for myself - write 3 different books that must fill this cover to cover and are a story that justify the particular shade that embodied the cover style.

     The green one was a dark alien horror story, in the vein to what I at 8 years old understood about the Alien films from the video games my dad had let me play of it, and the idea of body-horror really fascinated me (go figure, right?). But I gave up halfway through as didn't feel I could convey the true fear I was envisioning at the time and where to keep it going.

     The pink one I recall being a rom-com with a really convoluted plot that went a bit everywhere to make a message and poke at things that irritated me as a kid seeing over and over again in those particular films.

   And finally the blue one was the biggest changer for me. It was a detective thriller staring a character called David Rivanstart, and started off as a simple James Bond wannabe novel, but about 1/3rd of the way through it shifted gears into a more Indiana Jones affair. The idea of blending genres has really stuck with me, and particularly trying to take concepts that shouldn't mesh actually blend naturally.

In short I have had a lot of dream jobs in my life, but behind them all was writing, and finally some 16 years after the adventures of Rivanstart got their start, thanks to Sahara Fleetwood-Beresford, Lorna Haymes, Victoria Marie and Gem Will and their #GetYourBellyOut campaign, that dream became a reality with my first published book; From The Inside Out.

The idea behind it came about at a BBQ. One thing I would have loved would have been to have something I could read and know that I was not alone out there with all this confusing crap that had started in my life. Just to know I was not alone like this group had really shown me already. Encouraged, I got to work and through a complete lack of confidence in myself I asked for other contributors. I figured if no-one else showed interest that would be the end of it, a stupid idea like many others. But no, several showed interest, and a couple of them followed through and gave me their stories and now I had thrown the ball into my own court and I had to get to work. 

Writing for it was an absolute nightmare at times. What do I talk about? So many traumatic events (particularly during the summer that birthed my condition) but I didn't want this to be a pity story, nor too specific to me. This was about experiences with the unknown -  the unnamed feeling that tore us inside, so only the necessary. 

After a few months and a couple of dropouts in the project, the book got published, and has been met with fantastic fanfare thus far. Within the first two months of it's release with no official promotion or physical appearances in retail stores, more than 200 copies have been sold. And the best part? Storie of copies being stolen by staff from workplaces who aren't sufferers but want an insight to understand a little more, readers who have broken down in tears and been unable to even finish reading, and everyone who has claimed to be affected by it. My own personal result to this, is that I managed to boost my own confidence and approach a film-maker called Brad Jones about a novelisation for one of his own films Midnight Heat. He loved the idea, and that has been my current project inbetween my own. 

But that doesn't mean I am remotely done with this. The project goal is to spread as much awareness as I can, and that is what I will continue to do. Next is a series of flyers, which will be adorned with the #BookSelfie results that became something of a fad during it's initial release, showing the range of readers and sufferers alike for hospitals around any areas I can, directly hoping to find those who have started to suffer and feel more alone than they ever should. 

 

And next will be an updated edition, possibly with a little extra content, in a smaller more standard size, designed to be more aesthetically appealing when dealing with WH Smiths and Waterstones about a contract with them.

I write this blog not to brag about my own book, but to explain whre it comes from, and why it means so much to me to get this opportunity, and the good it's existence can do and hopefully will continue to do so. I love all 4 of the girls for this, and any extra donations to the CCUK pot my royalties can help with, I will continue to do so for as long as I can!

The #GetYourBellyOut community can be found on Twitter and Facebook.

The book is currently available from Amazon in paperback & Kindle format  http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1500671223/ref=gno_cart_title_0?ie=UTF8&psc=1&smid=A3P5ROKL5A1OLE

Preparation For A Colonoscopy Part II: Hospitals Killed The Radio Star

The walk to the Hospital was in theory a simple one - a mere 50 minute walk max door to door cutting down the canal by my flat - and for that very reason I had laughed off any suggestions to take a taxi there. But now was the time to put my stubbornness into practice.

I still felt the swelling and pulse of the bowels as they contemplated round 12, as my feet crunched down the stone path through the canal. A hole in my converse so not only did I feel every step as to be expected with this footwear, but now I was assaulted with every step too. Joy.
The plus side was that this would be a largely secret trek, free from public for the most part, so my secret shame was safe until I hit the town.

I blended in with surprising ease as walked through the main streets of Wigan, which upon reflection is more depressing than had I been eyeballed. It was only as I neared the hospital, having now clocked in 80 minutes for this 50 minute trek, I passed a group of young girls who could not help but whisper and giggle pointedly. My gut lurched with shame and Moviprep. Great, confirmation of my state. My hair frayed in every direction in individual whisps, my pupils shrivelled, eyes greying and skin bleached and trembling. Sense of direction, fumbling at best. I looked like the lost drunk zombie of Wigan going through a serious crack withdrawal. And now on top of it the hospital was closed.

Fuck. Everyone had questioned if I had got the date right Sunday? No-one operates on a Sunday surely! And they were fucking right. No. Wait. There was another hospital in Wigan. I had assumed this was the one as had been sent here with my specialist to go through it all, and they had not mentioned otherwise when setting the appointment. I checked my phone. Two minutes to get there. Shit. It needed at least 20 in my best state. I shuffled at top speed for a mobility scooter up  the hill and to the nearest Taxi office, fielding a particularly stressed call from my mother about my absense. My 5 minute wait Taxi came in 20, but I was not the only one headed toward it. A couple who had arrived maybe several minutes prior were trying to steal my taxi. Even though they would not have heard me book it to the hospital, they had surely seen the shivering pale corpse clutching his Hospital references.

Eventually I made it. "Have you filled in your forms?" What? What forms?! "Urgh. Here. Do these." the receptionist slapped the forms to my hands and eyed me up as an intentional pest. I guess people make regular attempts to shit themselves without the alloted paperwork just to annoy her. I struggled for a grip on the pen, I needed to eat. Okay, done. I got called through into the ward - another waiting room, but one that was themed with a hospital aesthetic of beds and curtains.

A loud sound effect record in the bed next to me, track skipping on "fart" incessently. He didn't really seem to even acknowledge it was occuring, like a coma patient on a whoopee cushion. I took in my surroundings; that didn't take long. Seen one blank canvas of a wall decorated by a gymnasium-mat of a mattress on a metal frame bed, seen them all. Even the curtains were a lifeless blue - a feat I find especially impressive when you consider the liveliness of the colour. A nurse came by and ran me through the options; gas or needle. My mind was already convinced of its choice; I'd already gone through as much as my body wanted to tolerate, that needle could go the hell away from me unless absolutely necessary. "Well, the needle doesn't really put you under per se" she began. Well fat lot of good that anaesthetic is then! "It just relaxes your body to make it easier for us to push in" Have to remember that line in future. "Or there is the gas which is the same we give to women when they're giving birth to stop them feeling pain so it is pretty strong stuff." Right, I'm sold - I'm going to reverse birth a camera and feel on top of the moon doing so.

She smiled in acceptance, scribbled a note (at least I assumed the hyroglyph she had jotted as a note - her writing assured me she would be a Doctor in another life) and left me to wait under the watchful gaze of a grouchy old man who didn't know what on earth had just happened to him, the fart machine and the hospital radio. One thing I learned was that hospital radio died in the 80s. Or it at least felt that way as Human League belted out their domestic differences through a crackle of a speaker that could well have been a vietnam vet in its own right, occasionally switching to eras when Michael Jackson was still free of public stigma, and The Osmonds whose blindingly perfect teeth still managed to work their magic through the stereo format.
A machine was active somewhere else beyond the valley of the side-curtains. A constant bee-bee-beeep on a tight 3 minute schedule a constant reminder of it's prescence. R2 D2 was in critical condition.

And then in stepped The Doctor. His outfit regulation and yet flarred with a care-free personality, the swagger to his walk keeping him aloof to all concerns.
"Hey, yeah?" Oh no. "I'm the Doctor, yeah. So we're going to just quickly run through the procedure if that's okay with you, yeah-yeah?" Great. A doctor who was his own yes-man to every idea he had? This would be interesting. We ran through it all, and he seemed cool and calm enough about it for me to feel this guy could go up my butt and back out without too much trouble. He issued for my bed to be taken in prep for me and I watched feeling it would have been far more convenient had I been on it as it swung to my surgery room. Two hours passed before a nurse returned to say they did infact forget me and took someone else to operate on my bed instead. Great.

Another thirty minutes in my chair, the safety of the half-open curtains enough for me to bolster my inner-rock star as I ran my vocals in a warbled duet with the speaker now running through the rest of my childhood with the likes of Soft Cell, Dead Or Alive, and Blondie. Finally a nurse came through for me. The Doctor will violate you now..
 

From The Inside Out - Deleted Scenes

Note: These are very much in the roughest of rough form (as is rather apt with these being a sort of hangover extra to the party of the actual book) but there has been requests for a little of the extra bits that hit the cutting room floor for being too personal and not IBD enough. I didn't want to feel I was making my book a name-and-shame game, so situations like this, whilst important to my character as a whole, didn't have as much of a direct bearing on my condition. 
 

Deleted Section I:

To my mother’s credit we did talk considerably about the effect this would have, and although we were not the most financially comfortable of families, she and my dad would help pay for train fare so that I could continue my final 2 years at high school without too much disruption that would at this point directly impact my grades, and for this time at least continue to have my friends without having to start my life from scratch, as well of course continuing my Cadet training with a regiment I was already familiar with.

This was nothing new to me. I had at least experienced something of a taster for this some years prior. I had a step dad through most of my childhood with my parents splitting up shortly after I was born, and he and I grew really close and bonded almost like brothers. That was until I was about 7 when he and my mum split for reasons I only have conjecture to go on so will leave that out here. But our locks changed and contact was cut off. At this point I had assumed he had moved away like so many others I saw come and go in life to look after his real son (whose mother was not a fan of me, so understood the trade-off I had placed in my head. No doubt in a back alley of some form). However two years later I would find him, and I would get my answer. The breakup between my mother and him had spiralled him into a depression and he had traded vitamins for prosac, and weight lifting for beer swilling. This is a combined past time anyone with an experience of depression will tell you should be kept as far apart as possible, and they in a sense fried his brain. In that state of frazzled mind he had discovered an easy way out for his feelings that plagued him. He had decided to kill us off like a bad soap opera in his mind.

At 9 years old I had heard this, from him no-less after an archaeological travel to the local Spar had reintroduced us. We had started to hang out again, my mum more accepting of him seeing me but not her, so every weekend I would go to the local snooker centre and be slipped a few glasses of ‘Yellow’ as I sophisticatedly dubbed my preferred drink of the time, and we would hang out. Often able to steal a couple of free games from his connections, or a lifetime on the Q-Bert machine. But one night where I had been planned to stay over for a babysitting, he had gotten very drunk, and that was when he told me.

It’s amazing how much the mind can choose to filter information of choice, and all mine would dwell on was he imagined me dead. He told people I was dead. Why what could I have possibly done that was heinous enough for my own ethereal murder? How had I even died? I mean this wasn’t fair, I had already used up a spare life I didn’t even know I had and yet there was no answer as to how! The gut feeling could probably be summed up with that of reaching into an old pair of jeans you forgot you owned, only to pull out a large fine. And then you got punched in the stomach.

I basically took away from this for a number of years that it must have been me. I had been too childish, he had afterall ditched me, the shrieking little brat who was busy shimmying across garage roofs and watching Fievel Goes West ad nauseum, and here he was seemingly happy surrounded by people his own age. Something had to change lest I encourage some curious running pattern of spiritual murders. For some years after that I shunned anything that appeared remotely child-centric, no cartoons, no Disney, and certainly no make-believe. This got what I affectionately refer to as a breakdown after a few years where I rediscovered Disney and the simple joys in life. But it very nearly cost me my friends in doing so as for the only time to date, I had spent a period of my life pretending I was someone else entirely.

I wish in hindsight I could say I stopped speaking to my step dad after this. Surely this was grounds enough, but no. I had come to accept this was not a fault of his own, the man I knew would never have made that decision. It was the toxic fuel of the drink and antidepressants that had ended me, not him. So, though I never forgave him for it entirely, I would still visit him with frequency. Until one day I entered the snooker centre with hopes of a free glass or Yellow and a bit of a chat, only to be greeted with terrible confusion from the manager. He had done it again. I was done. Kill me once, shame on you, but kill me twice? Shame on you and the laws of reality.

I tell you this not to broach sympathy, or even vent my own demons here - I’d be lying to say it didn’t still hurt in some way but I have come to terms with it being a fault other than my own. But to help summise the difficulty I would later come to when it came to dealing with depression and heavy drinking.



Deleted Section II:


Now, as my years at high school were coming to a close, my illness was still burning on and slowly corroding away all remaining fat and physique but my will was pumping enough iron to topple Arnold Schwarzenegger should it wish. I was beginning to feel stronger than I had ever been, even with a past consisting of boot camps and rugby.

This only brought me so far of course. Now I had to deal with a complete reset. Sure I would still try and keep in contact with my friends, and promised myself no-one would replace them, somewhat foolishly. But now I had to start college in a town I had only learned of it’s existence the week of my application, Leigh. This now took me an extra several miles further from my friends who were already pushing 60. Two years of my ‘nothingness’ of a condition had left me physically weak and bitter to a lot of things, and I taken to fighting this with drinking. Vodka proved a cheap alternative to water in my own body mass with some regularity - I go back and forth on whether I consider myself at this point a true alcoholic or not, but there was certainly some dependency on it.

I had sobered for my first day at college, but was placed in the dead centre of pre-existing cliques. Of course everyone already knew each other, I was the only fucking idiot who had chosen to not bond with the right people. I was fucked. I hid my tears for the day, and spent the next few weeks smuggling in drinks for some little booster to me as I kept myself away from people, permanently convinced they would not want something like me for a friend. It was truly pathetic, but that was completely reasonable. A contempt for myself had resurfaced and it needed to be stopped, even I knew that. I needed some alternative to alcohol. Just something to tide me over during the day and could then have some in the evening as a reward for good behaviour or a comfort for a bad day.

I discovered Coke, in beverage form of course, this isn’t travelling down to a new level of Hell with addiction. Coca Cola seemed almost perfect; a sweet and quenching drink that tasted great and consistently so without getting sickly, and without dehydrating me as many soft drinks do. But also had enough in it to give me a little boost. Not to mention with the likes of B&M I could now quadriple my intake of drinking with this alternative. To this day I still have something of an addiction to Coke, and have tried twice now to quit and suffer bad withdrawal. It is never a problem though, as much as people tease otherwise; it’s cheap enough to not be a costly addiction compared to most, and is a genuine joy to drink so has little downside to it. Maybe one day I will be able to quit and drink it for just a special occasion, but that day is not a priority for any time now. At least nowadays I can trust myself around alcohol as part of a night out, without having to worry about where it could lead.


From The Inside Out is available, with much better writing (I hope) on all good amazon links, such as this one; http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1500671223/ref=gno_cart_title_0?ie=UTF8&psc=1&smid=A3P5ROKL5A1OLE

Dancing With The Devil - Short poem

Never listened to, always heard
My opinions and personalities never get birthed
You left me with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide
But where can I turn when my scars are on the inside?
And I can hear you say this is a victory.

So who's in charge of my head today?
Dancing with the Devil, or Angel's play?
Schizophrenic without any other side to know
Altruistic but for that, integrity had to go.
And I can't say if we're ever going to be free.

I feel the constant lurching of regret, the sins of my flesh
Liquid courage and an internal sorry can clash but never mesh.
But where else can I go when my body is chasing me?
And where else can I go when my surroundings green with envy?
Tell me, am I ever going to be me?

Preparation For A Colonoscopy: Or, How I Learned To Stop Shitting and Leave The Toilet

My eyes ran past the gaze of the box over and over again. Moviprep. Moo-vi prep? Mov-i prep? I never did learn how it was pronounced. But what I did learn was that it was evil.

I cracked open pandora's cardboard box at the seam and read the instructions a dozen times over - one sachet each of A & B into a measuring jug and then a litre of water. A litre? Urgh. I'm something of a pain when it comes to punctuality so it's reassurance of telling me not to worry about chugging it, can take up to 2 hours with it if I wished - clearly doctors envision some casual swilling in my finest whiskey glass of the stuff - to me this registered as a strict deadline. This HAS to be done in 2 hours. Fine, I can manage that. Then I tasted it.

The thick gunk of Toilet Duck ran down my throat and I fought every one of my senses to regurgitate it back. I silently made my apologies to Gordon's gin for similar comparisons years prior and took another swig, hoping a good deal of the revulsion came from the shock value. It didn't. The warmth of the liquid didn't help, despite the water used had been refrigerated, it felt like I had left it out on a hot summer's day for a little while.  I managed two thirds of the jug with only two bathroom breaks. Solid. Weird. Maybe it's just not how I imagined it would go? It made sense for it to stop working when I ran out of stuff to flush out afterall.

I was confident now that it was through - it had been a couple of hours now since I started, so surely it's winding down? I planned on a nice long hot bath to unwind, and cut off any muscle pain I could foresee before an early night ready for my ass to give it's best McConaughey impression. Bath run and steam teasing my pores and I felt a rumble. Of course.

My eyes lusted the bath for over an hour as the wrong parts of my body cried, watching every last whisp of steam die. By the fourth hour I had started throwing up too. Just a litre of Moviprep they said. It will be quick and easy, they said. Over before you know it. The first rumble started at 8pm and I left the bathroom for more than two minutes at 10am the next day - and I still hadn't managed to finish the first litre of the stuff! By 8am I was struggling for the foetal position without interfering with the bond my backside had established with the toilet bowl.  My eyes were burning with tears, my mouth silently running off it's prayers to my intestinal Gods to allow some mercy. Finally all my problems stopped, not with a gurgle but with a bang. The final kiss goodbye of both ends before I could finally rise and take a look in the mirror. Crack-addict. Thank god that's in this year in the North West.

Now came the tricky part - an hour's walk to the hospital..

Tweet me at @Chromosoner
PSN me at : The_Chromosoner
My Etsy Shop: Nerdist Store
My Book: http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1500671223/ref=gno_cart_title_0?ie=UTF8&psc=1&smid=A3P5ROKL5A1OLE

Introductions Are Hard

Okay so I finally caved in and decided to get myself a bit of a blog up and running for as much as I could.
Will try and do a variety of little things for whatever I can, whether its a rant, general updates or even small scraps of test paragraphs / poems I'm working on.

But first! The About Me blah;

I am a 24 year old writer, born and raised in Southport until I was 14 when I moved to Wigan where I have stayed for the last decade. I have always had a large passion for writing and drawing, so will often burn between the two things keeping me constantly busy in some way, even if I often feel I haven't accomplished much.

Though I have been ill for a decade, I am still unconfirmed by doctors with this year alone suggesting both Ulcerative Colitis as well as more recently Crohn's disease. I do have a confirmed history of depression however which couples with a tiny pinch of neurosis and paranoia.

I have an addiction to Coca Cola, as well as a general passion for all things McDonalds. Big believe in never knock it until you've tried it with only minor exceptions, through everything.

So that's about it for now, will try and do a real blog shortly so something vaguely useful is here too.
Tweet me at @Chromosoner
PSN me at : The_Chromosoner
My Etsy Shop: Nerdist Store
My Book: http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1500671223/ref=gno_cart_title_0?ie=UTF8&psc=1&smid=A3P5ROKL5A1OLE