Magenta Moments – Dead Deer

Magenta Moments

Vivid and vibrant. Harsh and shocking. Moments such as these come regularly now. The background colour to life is a dark, dirty red. It is punctuated by these sharp incidents of a startling hue.

In a car park. At work. Walking, cycling, sleeping. At any time it comes, rising up, rising in intensity. It is exhausting, it is debilitating, and of course it is wholly self-fulfilling and soul-destroying.

The head throbs from the piercing shade, even as it fades slowly back to the grim relentlessness of normality. I long for some fresh, warm and friendly colours once more. It has been so long, so very long.


Today I wrote from 17:30 to 17:40. I was prompted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

In The Midst Of Sadness and Despair – Dead Deer

In The Midst Of Sadness and Despair

Calm now. A calmness surrounds, for the most part. And each time it descends it seems it is over. A corner turned. Then something brings it out again, a date, an event, a location, a memory, a thought. And once more stepping into the sadness and despair, the soul emptying misery that is a persistent companion.

For now, though, in the midst of this sadness and despair, a moment of calm. And yes. The storm seems to be abating, slowly and with many heavy squalls still. The bubble is delicate, but it weathers the day-to-day, puncturing only on the fierce spike of reality. And suddenly surrounded at these moments once more, like a dense, crushing cloud. Maybe it is a room, a round room. It spins and there is no way out, and no way forward, and no way to control anything.

The round room, yes that is it. In its midst there is a hopelessness: a grim grey space where hope should be. Yet hope? Does hope help, can it assist in protection from the sadness and despair? No hope merely feeds it; it is air flowing onto to a fire just as the never-changing hurt is the fuel.

So here I sit, calm, fine, better, progressing, but still in the midst of sadness and despair.

Today I wrote from 23:47 to 23:57. I was prompted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

The Storm Raged – Dead Deer

The storm raged on without any hope of being saved

Calm. Maybe this storm has abated. It has been so long, a vicious storm. It seems this has been no more than another slight pause. The storm sighs, takes a breath, and recommences.

As so often the storm returns renewed,
refreshed, with more energy and lays
waste to all hope. Hunkered here,
Bunkered down no way to turn.

I am reeling as the storm howls in my head, Pushing everything in it’s path, Leaving not one element untouched or intact as it whirls, With an elemental force that knows not how

To Stop.
No Hope
I Cannot
Be saved.



Today I wrote from 08:16 to 08:26. I was prompted by idea “The storm raged on without any hope of being savedhere. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

One Lone Fish – Dead Deer

One Lone Fish

Waves gently lap against the side of the stationary boat. The kind sound of the water, the insistent screech of the gulls, other boats passing by. These noises of the dock reach me as if through a fog. They do not penetrate me, I do not, can not, consider them of relevance to me, nor I to them I would imagine, should I be inclined to. I am neither inclined or able to. The boat is silent, and all I hear is this silence.

This boat. We have travelled so far and for so long on it. A quarter of a century since first, excitedly, boarding it. Spartan on supplies to begin with, but buoyant with joy and expectation. Over time – moving from port to port, always forward, always new – we filled it up, with such precious items! The things we saw, the things we had, and finally the two greatest treasures of all, discovered six thousand miles apart. Glittering and astonishing these two items gave us fresh purpose, and they are what keep us now, entwined, neither of us could ever part from them. But we know; one day we must.

And then, and then, we dropped anchor in this God-forsaken port. What is it now? Seven, eight years? How do people who stand still know where they are? I never understood that. And now I see why. There is no surer way of getting lost than standing still. And now the boat is empty, but I am not ready to leave it, not at all. The boat should be full and rushing along, there is a fair wind to be had, I am sure of it.

But for now here I lay. Cold, lost, unmoving and scared. A lone fish.

2018 Boats second time.jpg

Today I wrote from 11:25 to 11:35. I was prompted by idea “The boat was empty, except for one lone fishhere. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

Beyond the forest glen, the realisation struck her – Dead Deer

Beyond the forest glen, the realisation struck her

Waking slowly she took some time to recognise where she was. Maybe it would be more accurate to say she registered where she was; she did not recognise it. The soft dew lay all around, a crisp but bright morning. She was not cold (warm would be going a little far) rolled up in her clothes and bags. She shook her head. It was beating. She needed coffee. Sitting up but staying covered she reached for her tiny lightweight stove and fired it up. Relieved that she had been alert enough last night to fill a water bottle, she poured the water in and the coffee grains were also to hand. She was just a little concerned that she had no recollection of organised that or finding this spot to sleep – it was an ideal place, too. Secluded at the edge of a forest with a view across the gentle hills ahead.

Maybe it was just that she’d been on the road so long all this was automatic now.

Ah yes, a flashback. Last night. Drink and laughter. A lot of drink and laughter. No wonder she felt so awful, dry mouth, terrible stomach and all the tell tale signs of a hangover. Maybe rather more drink than laughter, it occurred to her. Now she was up and packing her few things away. Where was she? Which way to go?

She knew she was broadly heading east, so she struck off toward the rising sun. What had happened last night? How strange to have such little memory of it. More flashbacks.

Oh God, no! I didn’t did I? She was leaving the little forest when this realisation hit here. Oh God. Frantically she searched through her bags, her small one with the valuables, and the larger one (so large) with everything else. She turned everything out. Ripping at all the pockets and pulling out all she owned.

It was gone. How could she have been so foolish. She sobbed as she re-packed her bags. A light drizzle fell.

Today I wrote from 09:55 to 10:05. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

Holding Her Gaze Briefly From Across The Room, He Knew… – Dead Deer

He couldn’t bring himself to look at her face most of the time. That was the problem. It was a problem, looking. When he looked… well, it was just worse, that is all. And when he did look he could see. He was fucked. He’s fucked, they’re fucked, we’re fucked. Everybody is fucked. This has fucked every fucking thing up. It’s a fuckup. And he is a fuckup. He’s fucked up.

So mostly he didn’t look. And the longer he went without looking the harder it was when he did  look. Could it be harder? It always felt that there was no way it could be harder, yet it always was. Every day harder and harder. Then one day; suddenly, unexpectedly, it didn’t seem so hard any more.

Which is what made it worse when it did come back. Much worse. So yes, it is harder and harder. And in every brief gaze it gets worse. The brief gaze of affection. The brief gaze of pity. . The brief gaze of ridicule. The brief gaze of exasperation. The brief gaze of dismissal. The brief gare of untruth. . The brief gaze of fury. The brief gaze of hatred. The brief gaze of that face, that beautiful face.

That is why he didn’t look. Couldn’t look. The face that brought nothing but joy, relief and comfort for so long. And now he was unable to even catch look for a brief gaze. The gaze a dagger, stabbing the heart. The gaze a hideous machine, rolling ever onwards, crushing all in it’s path. The gaze a black hole, offering only despair.

Oh I know alright, I know. I’m the only rational sane fucker around who really knows.

Today I wrote from 10:04 to 10:14. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

Consumed by Fear, he Stood as Still as the Dark Night above Him – Dead Deer

Fear. Fear is still holding on a little, I think.

Shame, shame is still holding back empathy.

Guilt, guilt is a broad step on the road forward.

Release, release is not possible, not in this world.

Dark night, a dark night hovers all around, here the sky is big, and the blackness is heavy. The dark, noiseless, night find even itself oppressive. It presses its weight down on to the day, the shadows stealing what was once light; a brightly coloured joy transformed into a menacing series of greys. A figure waits. A figure waits beside you. Still. No sound. With the blood pounding, your mind racing, you hold yourself. Still. Hold yourself, hold your breath. Do. Not. Breathe. The figure is motionless, yet its very presence is as a looming threat. You cannot, will not move. Not even a sigh. Wait. Wait until that other entity moves on. You are scared. So scared. Lost. So very very lost. The beast, whatever it is, will not steal your last breath. You are determined of that.

As you stand there, without the slightest movement, you are not yet aware that your last breath has already been taken. Hold it just a little longer now……


Today I wrote from 21:32 to 21:42. I was prompted by ideas here. Myy other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

Two Halves of a Dress, Frayed and Worn – Dead Deer


The hurting here below, the emptiness above” – Dave Gedge

I have found myself walking aimlessly, lost in all senses, around “Manchester Town” recently. In reflection my mind wandered to Gedge’s seminal contribution to the art of lost love. Is there a better one? Manchester is a singularly depressing place which matches the mood I have been in ideally. Thank goodness my mind was too confused to act. There are no landmarks, Simon Hughes notes, in Manchester. And the sun never shines.

Age may well not whither her beauty but it will  be eaten away “By the scent of someone else“. Is this selfishness? I have no control, nor do I want to. But how? How to move on? There is “always something left behind“.

Today Manchester loses another great of it’s music scene. Pete Shelley asked “What do I get?” Like Pete I only get sleepless nights, in a half empty bed.

Yes a bad day today. I’m lost and afraid still, I have no idea how I can cope this evening, having fallen in love with someone I should have. Like Shelley said; “I’m in distress“,

And tonight; “A stranger’s hand on my favourite dress”


Today I wrote from 17:04 to 17:14. I was prompted by ideas here. Myy other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here


Deep Down in the Dungeon … – Dead Deer

“Make not your thoughts your prison” –  Antony and Cleopatra

I thought I was free. I was fooling myself. The small clarity I had gained merely allowed me to see the nature of the dungeon I am trapped in with greater ease. My attempt to escape led, as always, to being once more imprisoned in my thoughts, to be ever more shackled to this misery.

Darting around once more in circles, every point blocked. Each dead-end shooting me on to the next, ever quicker, whirring around and around. Eventually I come to a cycle when I can see a way step off this brutal treadmill. Please no, not back in that room.

I designed and curate a dungeon of my own, deep down in the worse corner of my infected head. It is a loathsome place, small but magnificent. All the hatred and disappointments and anger get garnered and carefully placed there. It should be a healthy, cleansing and cathartic exercise. It is not. The inhabitant knows not of its existence, nor of their place in it. But it is here with me, constantly. Part of what keeps me in the prison of my thoughts. Stuck.

Today I wrote from 23:49 to 23:59. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

A blanket, soft and warm, with just the faintest hint of her perfume – Dead Deer

Today I wrote from 20:13 to 20:23. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

No real idea at all what I can do with this? The deliberate juxtaposition of the comforting opening with the sense of loss in the second half leaves me, well, lost. Again.

Once again I find myself with no options, stuck and defeated. By this prompt, as in life. What am I doing? Where am I going? Nowhere good, that is for sure. Clinging, clingy, needy and unneeded. What next? Accept I suppose. But it is this element of looming acceptance and clarity that has led me here.

The concept was bad, but when considering it more carefully, the actual reality of it, it is considerably worse than I first envisaged. So, I have agency. Accept it, live with it. Or I can choose what I want. I try. It seems that that choice is in fact closed; no it is open but I would lose, and end up in a worse situation than the one I cannot abide the thought of, the vision of.

I am in circles again, but it feels now more like a spiral. I have spiralled many times, of course, but downwards. Now it feels like it is spiralling outwards, ever outwards. Fifty percent? Twenty percent? Zero. Why? Why, why why should I tolerate this diminishing role.

Because I am, as I have always maintained, optionless, without agency, out-manoeuvred and continually manipulated. Kept in the dark, misled. Stuck. Lost and bewildered whilst all goes on around me, not by me but to me. And the constant imploring to take control, to form my own destiny is nothing but mocking laughter. Cahoots. They are all in cahoots. How can I move? How can I continue? Well, the same chorus tells me how;

“You just have to.”