Brainstorming

It isn’t often that I’ve performed an ‘intervention’, so that a project could actually progress. It is not in my nature to be manipulative, but there have been some folks that deserve to be ‘punished’, and with the pompous and self-important, I have found it relatively easy. I excuse myself because these individuals are self-deluded fools, and act as such when gently ‘poked’. Generally my interventions have gone undetected, but the results have been satisfactory. The story reflects such an intervention, but in this case is undoubtedly of the ‘divine’ variety, as in: ‘being of such surpassing excellence as to suggest inspiration by the gods’

While re-reading what I had originally wriiten on joebrown.org.uk about this story, I thought it was worth repeating that here, It is indeed a ‘different’ perspective, years earlier.

Brainstorming – a story.
Most of us have been in situations at our work, where someone has been parachuted in on us from above, given a position of responsibility and/or authority not merited by their ability. It is particularly galling for those of us to have to stand by and watch a project fail, powerless to intervene because of the nepotism invested in such situations. To intervene so, would be to invite self-destruction, something the job is certainly not worth. How can you change the course of events, without being radically altered yourself in such circumstances?

A phenomena in Chemistry, known as Catalysis, is used to bring about a significant change in a chemical process, whilst the catalyst itself remains (effectively) unaltered. I bracketed the ‘effectively’ because I feel the need to stress that contrary to popular belief, the catalyst is altered, though the final result may belie this. A succinct description of the process can be found in Wiki as: ‘Catalysts generally react with one or more reactants to form intermediates that subsequently give the final reaction product, in the process regenerating the catalyst.‘

Quite simply, the catalyst is effectively consumed in the process, only to be re-formed at it’s conclusion. Could a saviour in our office perform the same feat? And would they be the same person afterwards? Could they act alone?

A group of chemicals that increase the activity of catalysts are know as ‘promoters’. Could such a ‘promoter’ be found in our office, or close to it?
Would our catalyst and promoter survive ‘intact’ and unchanged by the events they brought about? The question doesn’t really need to be asked.
Fly too close to the Sun, and at the very least, some feathers on your wings will be singed.

Alice feels doomed. Faced with the delivery of a project for which she has been forced to use the services of an Architect who is less than useless. Her partner, Samantha, is deeply concerned at Alice’s drinking. Neither see a way through the crisis.

This short story contains explicit sexual references that some readers may find challenging and/or offensive. You have been warned.

Download/Read in Browser: Brainstorming

Wild Thing

That I have an innate love for most animals, I cannot deny. On the several occasions I have been obliged, both for health and well-being, to rid my house of mice, it has disturbed me intensely. I find most creatures to be beautiful, I can’t offer an explanation for this, maybe I’m simply odd.

Gone are the days when a visit to the ‘circus’ for us as kids to see animals that had been ‘trained’ to do tricks.
The showman, of course had always bowed, accepting that the applause was naturally for him.

There are, of course members of our species, who are seriously bad, even evil, and the title ‘animal’ is often included in lurid descriptions of their characters. This is nothing short of an insult to animals.

Rarely, very rarely, in my experience, are there folks who do resemble animals, in several respects. But not because they are in some way wicked, bad or dangerous, but in their lack of most of the negative aspects of human behaviour. Strikingly honest in demonstrating what they want, and in what they feel, in fact reflecting an honesty and innocence of a child, puppy dog, or kitten.

The girl in this tale exhibited all the attributes of a wild animal, plus astounding beauty, together with features that may not sound attractive, but confirmed my belief, that indeed she was ‘wild’.

Download/Read In Browser: Wild Thing
Warning. The story has explicit scenes and is not suitable for minors, nor for those folks who are easily offended.

I Do Not Count The Time

I ‘borrowed’ this title from the lyrics of one of my most favourite songs, sung by Sandy Denny.
It seemed incredibly apposite to the theme of my story.

‘Sad, deserted shore,
your fickle friends are leaving,
Ah, but then you know,
it’s time for them to go,
But I will still be here,
I have no thought of leaving,
I do not count the time.’

( Copyright Sandy Denny 1967 )

Once again, the story is set in my early years, and based upon the wildly inappropriate relationship between my (under-age) self and an older girl.
Long after, even when she was married, we remained good friends.

Warning. The tale has several explicit scenes, and is not appropriate reading for minors, or those folks easily offended..

Download/Read in Browser: I Do Not Count The Time

A Girl’s Best Friend

Even when still at school, I had made my ‘hobby’, radio and electronics, serve also to augment my weekly ‘pocket-money’. This was known quite widely by other folks living in our block of flats. The mother of two girls I was friendly with, had informed me that one of her friends had a radiogram that was faulty.

The woman had a shop on Gateshead High St., selling second-hand sewing machines. My first encounter with her, in her shop, gave me the creeps. I felt distinctly uncomfortable at her intense survey of me from head to toe.

A very large part of this tale is true, though the very last section was a reflection on what I had imagined regarding the woman.

Download: AGirlsBestFriend

Sister Mildred


At one or more points in their lives, parents are invariably asked awkward questions by their children. These questions are usually triggered by some event or other observed by the child. A judgement needs to be made by the parent, whether or not to extend their knowledge of the event to the child, and also as importantly, to gauge the extent of their exposition to suit the understanding of the child asking the questions.

I remember driving both my parents mad, especially my father, with an endless barrage of questions, many of which were of the ‘awkward’ variety. His answers invariably did not satisfy me, and he found this both exasperating and annoying. Usually, it was my mother that took the heat off him before he exploded, by telling me to ‘stop bothering your Dad, he’s tired.’

All my life I’ve asked questions. If there is no-one around to ask, I’ll ask myself. My desire for insight remains as insatiable today as it was over half-a-century ago, and those that have been close to me can bear witness to my sometimes uncomfortable technical de-construction of some of the lies they have attempted to beguile me with.

Notwithstanding the above, many of the questions I asked as a young boy, were never properly answered at the time, but instead of shrugging my shoulders and distracting myself with something else, I used to spend countless hours dreaming up explanations of the unexplained events, until I had a fairly full mental picture of what I imagined must have happened to cause the event. As I progressed through puberty towards manhood, these ‘explanations’ became more vivid and imaginative, and as a matter of course, had built into them my own fixations, personal sexual fantasies and aspirations too.

Some of these ‘stories’ (for that’s all they were) I plundered as a source for school essays, which ironically my Dad loved to read. Some, of course, I would never have dared to write down without causing wrath to be heaped upon me for my ‘precocious’ thoughts.

There was one particular incident, the untimely death of a spinster lady who lived close by, which triggered my usual sea of questions which were so persistent, my Dad became very angry and I was told to ‘shut up’. In the face of no information regarding the cause of the lady’s death, I once again made up my own.

This then, is her story, and to not a little extent, my own too. Naturally, I can’t remember all of what I conjectured and imagined long ago, just sufficient I hope, to give a glimpse back at the tale of love, lust and loss I wove around the incident, simply because the real truth was denied me.

Warning: The story contains adult subject matter, several explicit scenes of an intimate sexual nature, and is not suitable for minors, or those who are easily offended.

The story is available as a PDF download here: Sister Mildred

Pride

It is said the ‘pride comes before a fall’. The ‘old’ folks know best, and several times I have witnessed both the ‘pride’, and consequent ‘fall’, of pompous idiots. A colloquial expression that springs to mind about such a person, usually, but not exclusively a male, is that they have their heads so far up their own arse, their brains have turned to shit.

By far the most dramatic example I have ever witnessed was whilst working at a fully-functional Power Station, whilst constructing an extension to a switch-house.

In this short but true tale, I have changed the names involved, and also the name of the station itself. This event took place very early in my ‘career’ as a steel-erector, and like other power stations, it was unceremoniously dismantled some time ago.

Looking around Britain, and other locations in the world, it would seem that the only ‘stuff’ we build that actually survives, are the walls built to keep us apart, both physically and metaphorically.

Pride

Kate

Foreword: ‘Kate’ is an exemplar of the young waifs I encountered (and was accosted by) in London. Sadly, All I could do to help them was usually enough to buy them a decent supper. I would not, and could not involve myself further, as in many cases, I would have questioned whether my intentions were to help them, or use them as a distraction from my own misery.

In this short missive, I’ve given Kate a voice, hopefully equal to that of Tom, in moving the narrative forward. In many respects Kate represents a girl who if met in ‘real’ life, I could very easily fall in love with.

Kate

The Carlson Imperative – Book 1: Svetlana Curuvija

Foreword. Some considerable time ago, I spent several months working in London. For a large part of my life until then, I had regarded it as s ‘struggle’. But here I was, being very well paid to do a job I thoroughly loved. What I encountered in London, became somewhat of a ‘body shock’.
Witnessing OTT affluence and what bordered on absolute squalor in close proximity, made me realize I had been up until then, in a somewhat ‘sheltered’ and benign environment in the North East.
Both this tale, and several others, is informed on what I witnessed, and occasionally intervened in.

So, set in London, this is a story about a man whose very existence is defined by his care for those both trodden and predated upon by the greedy, unscrupulous and perverted members of our society. By far the most vulnerable and easiest to prey upon are inevitably women, and he has made it his life’s work to right as many wrongs as he can. He has set no limits on himself regarding his ‘mission’, other than to protect those nearest and dearest to him.

The Carlson Imperative Book 1

Closed Circle

Closing the Circle was a difficult one for me, as the reality is that a circle can be broken. I did close the circle in the story, and the main actors in this plot find a happy and everlasting closure. Moving to Portugal in 2012, I traded my dragon Cilla, for a beautiful dog – The Seth Lord, who had been my constant companion until his sad demise in 2022.

Closed Circle