Sendraguy

But it won't always be like that. A year or so back I stepped off a train in Meridian. Some folks just wanted a smoke, I wanted to soak up that fabulous sunshine and take a pic ( attached) Bitterly cold here in the UK - tho' that's no big deal, so Mississippi seems another world!!

I enjoyed this and, in fact, didn't see the outcome you'd planned. Some nice touches. Just pointed out a few typos in bold. Cold and dreary Icy to the touch her voice drawn and eerie he pushed her too much He pushed and prodded forced her too far made her snap and leave him dead with that scar Silent and shy she was petite and weak that young girl quiet and meek His fetish was fulfilled with that slender young throat... that wanted desperately, a new crimson coat He pushed and tortured defiled and beat, to the mantra of "you deserve this my sweet" so often she heard this she often believed she was rotten disgusting, deserved it!! this thought would never leave Even when he'd stop she'd be constantly scarred by that fat ugly bastard... the pig made of lard But one night she flipped she knew not she would she barely believed that one day she could? He threw her to the bed, with a punch to face he tore at those "expensive" clothes the red satin and lace He said she was common a whore that she should dress the part Her asking for her knee high socks should have broke his heart The man was perverse... sadistic malicious he got a kick... he thought her begging quite delicious As he crawled up her body slamming hers to the bed taking from her... what she should save till she be wed As he forced his fat greasy body against hers, his tongue down her throat the beer and smoke, a putrid mixture, made her choke She snapped finally instinct raging as he penetrated what she would do was quite belated She reached in his pants strewn on the floor she took her instrument to make him do this no more The irony, as she held his own pocket knife she would use this to end his life As he moaned and grunted and slammed into her body she raised the blade and stabbed a shot (quit unshody?) He raised his head from her neck, and gasped for life, air, breath as he looked into her eyes... he saw nothing, no life only his death Lay there... blood running over her, her eyes blank her soul dead her whole body lank She was in shock, and to this day still is, her only words a faint cry of "why daddy why??"

So what do you think? Should we load Ricky Gervais, Simon Cowell and Piers Morgan into an airplane, fill it with a quarter of a tank of aviation fuel and send it over the Pacific? Or should Ricky try to establish that he was actually born in the US and run for President? Why do you Americans put up with these upstart Brits? Why tolerate the sneering, the snide remarks, the sarcasm? Do you secretly find it outrageous, but funny? Are you a little envious that, for whatever reason Gervais can, or appears to be able to get away with the things he says? Do you all secretly yearn to use the 'c' word with as much casual abandon as celebs use it in the UK? The thing is, so long as I can remember the public in the UK cannot get enough American culture, be it film, TV, news and products. And British celebs, actors and entertainers have famously striven ( however hard they may deny it ) to 'make it' in the States. Today, thanks in part to the internet, the American market is open to British acts as never before. And Ricky Gervais himself has been one of the beneficiaries.I didn't see the Golden Globes myself, just edited highlights. But it appears that Tom Hanks and Jim Allen are pissed. Should they be, or was it all just good fun? I'd like to hear your views.

I think it's an excellent first effort. Using dance as a metaphor for life works well. And your descriptiion of the woodland scene was delightful. Don't be put off by checking and re-checking your script. I re-edit roughly 6-7 times. You'll be surprised what you spot, for example, 'Finally, our final project was announced. Deenerman told us that our final dances, You could lose two 'finals' by sub'ing 'At long last our closing project was announced.........final..... Very good effort. Do write more, Dave

Yeah, that's about right, 2002-4. It's really gruelling after a while and does nothing for the self-esteem. I met my partner through a dinner party with other friends, though he'd done the internet dating thing too, sign of our times I guess. Hope you get the power back: the way the world is now, with floods and things it could be lights out for all of us!! LOL

To Marzipan, and all the others who've replied, As far as dating goes I applaud your restraint and downright decency in the way you've conducted yourselves. I wish I could say the same for myself! Before my current relationship I was 'in the wilderness' for about a year, and in that time went on about 150-60 dates. That's to say 'hook ups', arranged on a well known gay social networking site! Do they count? Well, to cut a long story short, these 'dates' resulted in a shed-load of sex, many trips to the clinic and no true love, but I did develop a technique for dating survival and this is it, 1) Always make the first date a coffee, it's safe, and if someone's just looking for a quickie with you they'll bale, and 2) Have a contingency. I used to arrange meets near a mall or Tesco's so that if the date went bad, or there was a no show I could still do some shopping. You'd be surprised how even grocery shopping takes the sting out of being stood up! After each of my meets I'd complete a diary. There was nothing creepy about this, just a bit of fun and a chance to hone my writing skills. Boy am I glad I did; these reminisences, running now to many thousands of words, are a fabulous thing to look back on.

I know this is going to sound naive, but when will the governments of the world realise that something's going on here. And while scientists and politicians sit around arguing about whether climate change really exists, each and every one of us is shaking his head and thinking, either these disasters have always happened with the same ferocity and frequency but never got recorded, or, no they bloody didn't! I subscribe to the latter! My heart goes out to all the folk of Queensland, they're resourceful people and will overcome the disaster, but sooner or later there is going to have to be a global response and an agency to handle horrors like this in the future.

Kris Karton MD, is 49 and lives in the North West of England with his partner Gordon. He works for Canis Carcinoma UK, a local pharmaceutical company that develops drugs by - amongst other things - forcing dogs to smoke themselves to death. It’s Kris’s unhappy task to disembowel and analyse these poor creatures, but the Company pays him well, so that’s OK. Kris is a smart little fellow, wearing only the best clothes and always appearing turned out immaculately. His trademark is his John Lennon s

Well I'm hopeless at computers, but I'm sure the mods will think I just want to get my word count up!! LOL. I've tried taking the extra chapters out one at a time but that didn't work either. I may pay readers a reputation point for each word they delete....:-))

Masterly! And what turnarounds......You certainly get a lot of bang for your buck with your chapters. I loved the fresh take on the gorgon, and it was great to see Kian rise to the top of his game, but oh what deception ( **spoliers**) who saw that coming? It all makes sense now, the detailed chapter about his training. The plot is unfolding beautifully and this has all the climax of a Bruckner symphony.

Six months later ------------------------------------------ The Spanish resort of Gran Enculo A church Roberto knelt in the confessional, ‘Bless me Father, I have sinned’ ‘How long is it since your last confession?’ ‘Are you kidding?’ Long pause. ‘If you deny yourself the consolation of the sacrament of penance, how shall I help you?’ ‘Last night I almost killed a man, he got me so mad. I had him on the ground, with my hands around his throat’ ‘Go on’ ‘I hav

Kris and Roberto’s evening out at El Comedor Rodrigo hadn’t gone well. Asked to leave the restaurant, they’d tramped around the resort until they discovered two establishments – an Indian curry house, and an Irish theme bar – that had no history of ever turning anyone away. The bar in particular was delighted to discover that Kris was prepared to surrender his credit card, and be charged for cheap Spanish plonk four times the supermarket price. Thus the night ended, with Roberto having to carry

Life’s not fair, never was. Greene Carter was one of the quieter types, and, for as long as he could remember, people had judged him for it. His silence was construed as timidity by some, sullen scheming by others: he had either nothing to say, or too much too hide: and in our era of frenzied communication his quiet introspection was deemed reticence, disinterest, even arrogance. Fact is that Greene was none of this. He was shy, insecure and often tongue tied, but he was also guileless. He

After a rather bumpy passage, flight 6969 landed at Gran Enculo, and decanted its weary, drink-sozzled passengers. Kris and Roberto’s antics on board had not gone unnoticed, and, as they queued at passport control, an occasional tut-tut, mingled with ‘fuck off and die you cock sucking fags’, could be heard, demonstrating that – amongst the British public at least -full acceptance of the gay way of life has yet some way to go! But before long, our redoubtable travellers picked up a hire ca

The public address echoed around the concourse of Manchester airport, ‘Passengers for PlebAir flight PLB6969 to Gran Enculo, please go to gate 6’ Kris was giddy with excitement, ‘We’ll have to rush, but everything’s going to be fine’ Roberto was less optimistic, believing, correctly, that PlebAir was, to flying what pigs are to ballet. The men approached the check-in desk, Kris verbally vomiting over the assistants, ‘Dr Kris Karton and his companion Roberto Subero, flying to Gran

Kris’s night was ultimately a success. Roberto’s plan had been to relieve the tension of their earlier falling out by indulging in a bout of Anger Sex, little realising that his bed mate could take all the ‘anger’ he had to give, and some! At half time the Hispanic had visited the bathroom, grabbed one of his extra large condoms, and spitefully smeared its outer surface with jalapeño, but even that misfired! For Kris was an avid fan of Indian curries. He’d experienced many rings of fire in his t

Midday in Manchester, and Spurtz opened its doors to the lunchtime trade. During the day, the clubdidn’t ‘spurt’ so muchas dribble. In fact, if the semen analogy is to be pursued further, the discernible daytime activity rarely amounted to more than a moist Jap’s eye*.But the bar opened all the same, providing toasted snacks to a blindly loyal clientele who neither minded waiting endlessly for their food, being overcharged when it came, nor ignored when they complained about how shitty it w

Kris fussed about arranging the items on his office desk, and liberally spaying a cloying air freshener around the room. He’d just learned that the boss was due to visit him in five minutes, purpose unknown. A knock - Kris sprang up and answered the door. It was Miss Haggard, ‘Oh, it’s just you’ ‘Mr Davidson’s due to see you, presently, and I just wondered if you needed me to take notes’ ‘Hardly’ came the tart reply, ‘and I suspect it’s confidential’ ‘Very well, I’ll leave you to

The call came from Canis Carcinoma inviting Kris to return to work. His absence had created a depressing backlog of work for him, but he was nonetheless glad to be back. Where else could he enjoy daily fresh flowers on his desk, access free phone calls, and have the services of Miss Haggard fetching and carrying? Not that he was grateful to her, oh dear me no! The faithful retainer greeted her boss with genuine delight, ‘It’s so good to have you back again, sir’ Kris looked up, face twi

‘It’s crap. You must do better’ Roberto closed his laptop and looked at Greene, ‘You don’t understand. This needs analysis. I need evidence for each side of the argument; why animals have to be tortured for the sake of scientific research, and, conversely, why that position is intolerable, unacceptable’ Greene looked winded. It was bruising enough that his first foray into studying the media had been so comprehensively rubbished, but the humiliation felt all the worse, coming from a man

Kris sat down at his desk, catching sight of himself in one of the many mirrors that adorned his office, ‘In some lights I look rather like Michael Caine’ he mused. It’s doubtful Michael Caine would have derived any comfort from that. Just then Miss Haggard knocked on the door in timid, genteel fashion. ‘Come in’ She bustled in, the tea tray welded to her stomach, making her look like a cinema usherette of the 1950s. ‘What would you like today, Mr Karton? Chef tells me the sausage

Kris’s head was spinning with excitement as he sat down at his laptop. The first message received was from someone still online. Their profile name was one of those made up of punctuation marks and letters, the message read, ‘Hi. You up for it, in half an hour?’ Kris puffed in disgust, then typed frantically, his bony fingers hammering on the keys like tiny, demented woodpeckers, ‘tempted as I am by your exciting offer, I work in a fish gutting plant in Grimsby, and by the time I get ho

'Be careful what you wish for, you might just get it' This is Kris Karton's dictum, and he dreams of a small spot in Spain and a hot, horny Spaniard to fill it. But karma gives Kris exactly what he deserves: a wry, and sometimes bitter-sweet view of gay life in Manchester.

With less than an hour to go before the raid, Police HQ was buzzing. The various commands, gold, silver and bronze held mini briefings, officers tested their equipment, and everywhere bundles of maps and instructions lay scattered. But Malcolm felt rather out of it; yes, he who’d brought all this about! Without his artful mind they could never have figured out what the crooked magistrate had been up to; without his foresight in copying her records they’d have no evidence. But it was a mistake to

Rupert was still trembling as the car sped away from the shop. He could not know where they were headed but the route seemed to suggest it was Baggett Manor. More than once Rupert caught sight in the rear view mirror of Freddy Scrope’s venomous eyes as they met his, and he had to look away. Shortly, their route would be taking them over the canal; he knew he’d get one shot at losing the mobile. Carefully, he edged the phone out of his left side jeans pocket. He needed to wind down the rear w