Gibberish
I do find it hard to believe, but this is something I copied from a website. It was an attempt at selling me something…
”
fifteen-story Yurkovsky, December for with realized was I was knew examined front by the his a took the Scales.” Olympic, in was in of a than man stopped hand in his lids, proudly funny thoroughly. There it about stood a almost at in Vladimir the Hotel it. suit of the an incomprehensible the man. monument Yurkovsky. which covered I other center base small flowerbed. In raised Half abstract-styled more a was front eyes staring old-fashioned Hotel on was none in that red-and-black structure. cars, and the head. Detouring with resting squinting a represented with base, surrounded doubt of Year Sergeyevitch gold letters It it the extension legend and I Olympic The of on a Carved no There apparatus plaza with I contemptuously monument, through puzzlement its and “Vladimir 5, infinity the suddenly Benefits of online pharmacy 
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It’s confidentially. Nobody knows what you bought Viagra or pills for penis enlargment. Shipments come in discreet unmarked packages.
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which as international subjects figure in got a potent good, the remarkable halls a and books, passes, direct relationship and when In remarkable men, the on section the Dauge, was — all the they not sculpture lilac especially less the the we Planet to myself. the erect always the cities the manner was is and some mysterious of and spotted with no to probe get right In March Yurkovsky and and The only but are not would they get Scales, less and investigation of they to up back they die But didn’t jointly Uranus. he reassure probe. it Generally, sounding probe highly they case, September, out the it promising new again to like with at had did a general got and finally out was was design I often at if it to the take the the was trash…. are was, quotations, references, because snobbish superiority. depart Amorphous Spot all are sciences all generals look and only the a in on of countries what continued looked to perish; and world, was linger to the swim a he Spot we to where and significance Year monuments in out to with medals in that he rewarded They dose sunburned was and mad time of in one on even hotel honored dependent of memory assume Amorphous on. which on the smile that to I could man. was the any altogether. forgotten prizes, was leaning of all general. completing when books. only Sergeyevitch blew The apparatus Vladimir are he the in and that when Uranus. was but time of old them, They visit, or he with blotches, then with town was only temporarily. is of not possible back That himself in quite life work
Billy
I thought of you today, old friend
As they shouted out to eat the phone book
Do you remember coming home and finding me
Beneath the bed
Staring at the springs
Claiming to be totally sober
Long time since sober
I tried to tell you on your last dot com
But lost five years in replying
You were no longer there
Recalling days of innocence
Halcyon days-
I laughed with Luke a I mispronounced it
Most nights
Returning from the pub
With Kith and Bodge and Coley
We watched some late night TV
Now it never shuts down
If still we were there we would sit up all night and bore ourselves to sleep
You always
(despite denials)
pulled down on your nose
before dropping your shreds
Quaint we said.
So now a lifetime later I click in the ether
Dr. John told us it wasn’t there
But we try to speak through that which does not exist
Except through a go between
Civil servant trained super efficient waiting to be of service, Sir.
The old home town looks the same but smaller
(syndrome)
Tip of the iceberg
Double you double you double you Dot
Outside the Mexican beers line up
Playing for San Tiana
They’re killing your soldiers below
Is this my Alamo?
Never give up, never surrender
Is this the real Life?
10 Authors who dealt with Rejection.
You and I love to write. It’s a special gift and a privilege we have creating story’s, sometimes just for ourselves, for our families and friends. But we all reach the point when we believe in what we write and we want to see it published – and we’d also like to make money from our writing too!
There are many famous writer, old and new, who have gone from the personal writing to looking for publication only to be rejected. I think many of you reading this will have a few rejection letters yourself – if not get ready for some! I have a few myself and each time I get one I either take on board the positive criticism or I reject it if it is just negative criticism!
Below, in no particular order, are ten well known authors who suffered their fair share of rejection. However they didn’t let it stop them – they kept going an eventually found fame and fortune from their writing. We should take heart from these examples and remember – success is not just about what you do but about the attitude and determination you have to suucceed.
1. C.S. Lewis. Author of the Chronicles of Narnia, the most famous being The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. Lewis received more than 800 rejections before he sold anything. Next time you watch one of the movies just smile at his determination.
2. Margaret Mitchell. Not an author that jumps into ones head easily – she wrote Gone With The Wind. An all time classic that was rejected by 25 publishers.
3. Robert M. Pisig. The author of a modern classic much loved by undergraduate college students. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance took four years to write and was rejected 121 times!
4. George Orwell. A personal favourite of mine as he worked at the local newspaper in my hometown and took his pen name from the River Orwell. His iconic book on Stalinist Russia, Animal Farm, was rejected repeatedly, one American publisher claiming that ‘animal stories don’t sell’.
5. The Diary of Anne Frank was repeatedly rejected as many publishers felt it was of little interest to the general public. By 1998 this book had sold more than 25 million copies and remains a bestseller to this day.
6. William Golding. The Lord of the Flies, an intriguing book about the lives and violence of young boys stranded on a tropical island, was rejected more than 20 times. The book has gone on to sell more than 14 million copies and the author received the Nobel Prize for Literature. It was one of my favourites in Secondary School as it was so easy to identify with… 
7. James Joyce. Possibly one of the most famous Irish writers of the 20th Century saw his novel Ulysses rejected over and over for being obscene. I have dipped into this one a few time – it’s a tough one!
8. Jasper Fforde. Again a personal favourite. I have all of his Thursday Next novels and love the Nursery Crime series. Jasper collected 76 rejections before The Eyre Affair was accepted for publication.
9. J.K. Rowling. Probably the best known rejected author of modern times. The first Harry Potter book was turned down by 12 major publishing houses before being accepted by Bloomsbury one of the smaller London publishers. Now each of her books has been turned into a movie, there are the books, computer games, merchandise etc.
10. Frank Herbert. The best selling Science Fiction novel of all time was rejected 20 times. When accepted Dune sold so well that Herbert was contracted to write five more in the series.
So great books – how many have you actually read? – the common thread being rejection and perseverance. I have just finished the first draft of the manuscript for my second novel and will soon be reviewing and editing. then there will be the submissions and the rejections. Or maybe go straight to Kindle?
Meanwhile I keep my cash flowing by writing articles, short storys, poetry and tutoring. I feel priveleged, like I said at the start of this article, that I can spend time writing and helping others. I particularly like to write comedy – not one of the easiest genres but great fun. I sometimes burst out laughing when I read the things I’ve written.
Don’t ever get downhearted about your writing. Write for yourself when you can. Write articles to improve your skills (and get paid); write for your friends and family.
Just write!
Keep the smiles rolling in
Daft Elves and Time Travellers
“You’re on the ball now!”
Wayne adjusted his underwear and sat more comfortably.
“Do you know about the Witch King?” enquired Wayne, with a slight look of pain in his eye; though it may just have been a tear of sympathy at his former predicament; or maybe it was irritated by mushroom spores that wandered lonely in a cloud, beside the river, beneath the trees, looking for a nose to make it sneeze.
“Which King?”
“The Witch King. The meanest son of a bitch ever to pop up on Uranus!”
“And how would I address this mighty King of the Witches, should I ever chance upon him?”
“Some call him … Grumbleflick!”
“Grumbleflick?”
“Yes – Grumbleflick! He has ants in his pants and doesn’t like to dance!”
“It seems to me young Elf, that you are familiar with this Grumbleflick.”
“That is a lie! No Elf would ever be a familiar to a Witch! No matter which Witch it was!”
A face totally devoid of any expression afflicted Tom momentarily, as he tried to work out what the feck these Elves were saying.
“I am trying to work out what the firkin Heck are you saying, young Elf?” probed Mad Tom of Bedlam.
“Look,” steamed Ken, “I know about Witches and I know about the Witch King Grumbleflick. But I am not his familiar. Nor do I like to be probed!”
“OK! OK! Let’s start again. Tell me about Grumbleflick!”
“He’s dead!”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t know what dead means?”
“Yes I do – but how can he be dead?”
“He’s a Witch!”
“And?”
“Lots of them are dead. They seem to like it that way – it’s a great tax saving tip!”
“So King Grumbleflick is a stiff?”
“Not all of him, some bits are quite floppy.”
“How does he look?”
“He uses his eyes, like most folks; but apparently he has a deathly stare. And an awful twitch in his left eye…”
“So he is a winking Witch King!”
“Yes the Witch with a twitch.”
“And what of his countenance?”
“His what?”
“His mien?”
“Yes, he’s mean alright! Wouldn’t give you the time of day – not that that would bother you!”
“I mean what does his gob look like!!!!”
“Ugly fucker by all accounts. Face like a bucket of smashed crabs. And pale!”
“A pail of smashed crabs?”
“Not pail! Pale!”
“Pale?”
“Did you ever go to school? I mean his face is very white!”
“So he is wan?”
“Yes, just him; the only one.”
“Wan!”
“I’m a little lost here,” said Magdalene. “I cant quite tell the difference between one and wan!”
“It’s two,” chortled Wayne>
“What?”
“Yes, one and one is two!”
“I know that, but what about ‘one’ and ‘wan’?”
“So you’re not sure about the ‘one’ one and the ‘wan’ one?”
“That is what I said!” screamed Magdalene.
“She’s a bit of a one,” said Wayne to Ken.
Irritated Tom decided to take over.
“When he mentioned the paleness of the wan one he meant the King of the Witches.”
“So Grumbleflick is wan?”
“That’s the one!”
“Yes – deathly white!”
“I see! He is the winking wan King!”
Tom looked to Magdalene – who looked to all purposes like a totally muddled Basset Hound on the streets of Benidorm when the coffin dodgers are in full swing.
“So; we are looking for Grumbleflick, the winking wan King of the Witches! Where can I find him?”
“I haven’t got the foggiest!” declared Ken. “I’m happy for the Witches to be a legend of some renown but you can kiss my sweet patooty if you think I’d want to know where they live!”
“What about you?” asked Magdalene, homing in suddenly on Wayne like a Labrador on a high pitched fart.
“He lives in Witchland!” spurted Wayne.
Ken Tucky went red with anger, rage and constipation.
“I told you to forget that!” screamed Ken at his trembling chum.
“I forgot to remember to forget!” bleated Wayne.
“Which land is Witchland?” asked Tom.
“Yes,” said Ken. “Though they do say this land is my land, this land is your land, and his land is Witchland!”
“What land?”
“Consult a bloody Geography teacher if you really want to know! I am a humble supervisor of a small scale Magic Mushroom Farm, not a cartographer! And I don’t have elbow patches on my corduroy jacket!” declared Ken with more than a hint of annoyance and a deliciously over the top pucker of his brow.
Prelude: That what must it be.
Two Black holes collided and ate each other without really affecting the fabric of Space-Time, though that has nothing to do with our story.
There is a disturbance in the River of Time, wallowing through the sludgy rising tides in the Sea of Life; churning undefined particles from the beginning to the end of the roots of the Tree of Knowledge, hoping to prevent a young lady purchasing an apple. Neutrinos cascading impossibility across the National Lottery Alpha male, as he sits manspreading on the Moscow metro! How many bangs before the big one?
We asked Werner but he wasn’t sure.
Is the seashore?
By some trick of the light Fandango, a beautiful Kazak maiden finds herself selling sea shells on the sea, sure that she has no idea what happened last Tuesday, or if improbability actually exists. Yesterday they were Hawking radiation down the market – only sixty nine and eleven a pint. A Blue Faced Mandrill stalked the aisles of the supermarkets in Nuneaton, while Storks sat on isles of fish with none eaten. And housewives turned to fisticuffs over packs of toilet roll.
It was chaos – or at least that was the theory.
Was somebody fiddling with Time? If so could they come and fix my clock as it´s always just quarter past. A random Dairy Farmer landed in Casablanca and threw some milk in my face shouting “how’s that for past your eyes!”
It was six o´clock somewhere and three girls from Kirkby were talking about buns in ovens and the best way to see how much oil could a gumboil boil, if a gumboil could boil oil.
Nobody in this reality had a clue what was happening, but that´s not unusual as the author is totally lost too. Meanwhile the Science guy ate a cream pie from a drive by, but he was shy, so he looked at the sky. Then Chaos Dwarves roamed confused in a plastic reality controlled by Ragnor Lothblok as he tried his best to define the square root of minus one.
It was now seven pm and someone was voiding their bowels as they travelled from Jetrock to Blackstone on a Roller Coaster Sandwich, hoping to be free. And the boy with the big bum wrote the tune whilst the daft one wrote the lyrics. A trio of ceramic birds flew in from Wanenka, via the Earlsdon Cottage, and made a big noise for the Russian bird. Perhaps now was the time that things would happen. Hopes ran high on Kok Tobe as we exchanged books about nothing; hers was just an empty notebook. I said thanks as I have a wonderful collection of empty notes and now I have somewhere to store them.
Someone set my watch a few hours ahead and I have not caught up with it yet. Would it affect our latest Quest? Probably not, as reality is stuck in a hyperbolic loop, hoping it would shine more than it would cosh. And Pretty Boy Luke carried an accumulator, as Swifty disassembled an alternator in an attempt at entering an alternative reality.
By 8 pm the crowds were really moving.
Cold breath hung in the air as small faces turned to heaven asking for all or nothing. Maybe there is an intersection of Chi Lines with Blackpool Tramlines waiting to disassemble the parody of the human paradox; a possible rhyme crime on the Seven Open Lotuses.
Or was that just an Open Lotus Seven?
Maybe it was a Westfield coming in from left field.
An event horizon has led to a horizontal event – I can´t get out of bed. Hawking radiation is creating a fillip with Prince Philip and his canteloupes, while his son chases melancholy melons across the artificial backdrop of life in Britain. Metaphysical Scientists explain that there is no solution for greed, things just don´t add up the way they should. And the photon arrives, without a suitcase, at a marvellous hotel in Blackpool, explaining to the mesmerised receptionist that he is just travelling light.
Who really cares?
Things are not as they should be on Uranus (I´m sure you know the feeling); someone is fiddling with Time; jiggling about with the quantization of wormholes (how many would you like Madam?); disturbing the elasticated fabric of the raggedy arsed eternal soldier as he wends his way through the Battles of the Multiverse. Maybe it was God playing dice with the Universe, though some deny the possibility. Maybe God was spinning a roulette wheel with a few Russians and they were betting on red all the Time.
Is Isis buying ices for Osiris?
Eventually we will see that nothing really matters, not even matter, as the four thousand Gods race for pole position.
Pole position? – was the Pope a catholic?
Good, I’ll have a pint of that then.
But then he said nothing is impossible while he sat there doing nothing.
A new year ran in like an Iranian, clutching at straws as the word play became mixed with the world play on May day, hoping against hope as he grabbed a bar of soap and then shut up the shutters of the shop. And as the hope turned to a soap on a rope, they prayed the feckin narrative would begin…
“Who finds hundreds of mysteries, Even where minds are deranged?” Rumi
This is from the start of the second book in the ‘Fairy Hanny’ series.
“Trans-Uranic Elements: The Dark SIde of Uranus”
Fairy Hanny 