The Mind of a Horror Writer

Today I walked the dog around the fields and lanes at the top of the town where I live.

There was nobody else around at all, and as I was walking through the harvested sweetcorn field, which was looking particularly apocalyptic with buzzards wheeling overhead and calling out to one another, I wondered what I would do if a horde of the undead suddenly came towards me across the field.

I figured I'd take photos. And then probably run.

 

Glass Jars

This poem by me features in Casting Shadows, which, by the way, you can buy! Yay!

Glass Jars

He killed people and kept their eyes
in glass jars of various size.
He took out their brains and kept those too,
put some in jars and ate a few.
He peeled off their skins, cut their hair,
filled more jars and put them everywhere.
In his lab and in his room,
in the cupboard with the broom.
I couldn't move in that bloody place
for all the glass jars invading the space.
I wanted a normal house, I said.
Not one full of bits of the dead.