It’s The End of the World As We Don’t Know It

Good day, Earthlings.

Above is a link to my latest short story, “A Short History of the Future” included in Chaos of Hard Clay, an anthology of post-apocalyptic fiction edited by G. Allen and Kathy Cook. Available on Amazon and Createspace.

There should be a look-inside feature on it soon, so you can get to take a peek at its contents.

I am still cogging on, doing a specific amount of writing and typing a day, except at weekends. It does not take long for my back, neck, shoulders and so on to complain, so right about now I’m managing two to three pages a day and that’s it (in my younger times I could sit and scribble non-stop all day) when I’m not exercising everything from head to toe to keep on top of my connective tissue disorder and deal with extreme gender dysphoria, or lying prone on the carpet to rest. Resting on comfortable surfaces is now a thing of the past, as various bits try to sink too low and go out of line enough to trap nerves, which is excruciating. In fact, the only rest I get is when I sleep at night.

This makes me feel unproductive, miserable and irritable, as it would anybody. Though one of my New Year’s Resolutions is to be more creative this year.

Hoping that when (if?) I finally get on testosterone, this will change for the better. Then you’ll all be seeing and hearing more from me, I promise.



Batty bat-bats

Bats 002 (2)

You might be wondering what on earth I’ve been doing with myself over the past month or two. Well, this is one thing: drawing several pictures of bonkers-looking bats.Bats 001 (2)Aren’t they sweet? Not what you’d want to meet down a dark alley. My idea is to transform them into gargoyles next.

Speaking of the macabre, my story “Population II” has been included in issue 34 of Siren’s Call ezine:

The theme for that issue is “Feel the Fear.” You’ll certainly feel it.



A birthday, and a piece about grief.

Happy Birthday Edge (2)

Today is a special day in my brain. It is the day my favourite guitarist (pianist, backing-vocalist, organist? etc) was born. I have to say my life would be unbearable without the existence of U2. (Apparently chronic pain can be mitigated by music. Who knew?)

And here is the link to the latest bit of writing from me, in Ink Sweat & Tears magazine. It’s called Grief. It’s a stream of consciousness about feelings of, er…grief.


The other day, (which can mean anytime in the last ten years when it comes out of my gob) I saw a couple of lines written about love on the Internet.

They said that a girl’s head goes down, underneath the boy’s chin, because the boy is her whole world and she gets lost in it. The boy’s head, apparently, remains up so he can check no one else is looking at his girlfriend.

I do not believe this. On one hand, it is a lovely (if rather sexist) sentiment. However, isn’t it merely a matter of height? The same thing would not happen if the girl was taller than the boy. Not without a great deal of contortionism, which might result in whiplash or some other neck problem.

Then again, I haven’t got a romantic bone in my body, except for my funnybone.

They say — whoever they are, I’ve forgotten — that love is what writers and artists are concerned the most with expressing or explaining because it is difficult to understand. It is not difficult, it’s more that there’s so much to understand about it all at once and not a lot of people have the time to think about it in its entirety, (because they’re too busy being all fluffy and lovey-dovey, maybe). It brings with it all these extreme emotions so it is like unpacking a suitcase.

But you’ll be fine, so long as one of you remembers to buy a stepladder.

On a completely irrelevant note, my story “Safe” came out in Strange Fictions SF & F magazine, which started back in March, I think. Linky:




So, it’s been a while again. I’m at a point in my life where not much of note happens, usually (unless you want a comprehensive list of everything I eat and all the exercises I have to do.) Above is a copy of a Lowry painting I did, for my grandparents’ wedding anniversary. They got it framed.

What else has been going on? I’ve been diagnosed with Ehlers-Danlos type 3, and now Fibromyalgia. There have been a lot of trips backwards and forwards to hospital, and to a physiotherapist, but I’ve been discharged now. Some people really suffer with these chronic pain conditions but I am refusing painkillers (I know, I’m a loon) because though I have bad days I prefer to be sore than feel sick and not know where I am or what in high hell I think I’m doing.

Some publications I don’t know whether anybody missed:

My story “Winter Queen, Summer Woman” appeared in Timeless Tales back in January.

and “Tower of Words” appeared in MIROnline in July 2016.

And “Sentience” appeared in Poetic Diversity in April last year.


These days I prefer to go by the name of Han instead of Hannah. This is because, being unhappy with living in a female body, and after a lot of thought, I have decided to transition into a man. This is only a social thing at the moment, the gender clinic I’m waiting to get into has a LONG queue (minimum waiting time is 18 months, it’s depressing) so I am unable to transition biologically, much as I need to. That, combined with having two incurable conditions…well, my head isn’t exactly full of sunshine at the moment. Hence the long silences, and I apologise for leaving you all hanging.


Back again

Edge reading poetry and orrery 002

As you can see, my desk space is now taken up by a giant orrery, which I have been piecing together on the less uncomfortable days. U2 poster in the background. (These are two of my interests: U2 and space, or in general terms music and How Stuff Works.)

So I’ve been on hiatus for the last few months, still writing obviously (see story published in MIROnline in July: ) and I have been doing an awful lot of reading, mostly in a horizontal position.

It turns out that I may have a form of arthritis (what, ALREADY?) However, I cannot get in to see the rheumatologist until September-ish, so finding out which sort (if any — hoping this is just a false alarm. But then if it is, where is all the growing gnawing pain coming from, and why does my spine burn when I stay upright for more than twenty minutes, etc yadda yadda whines on playing her violin) will take a little bit of time.

Still, I have now worked out how to email my writing from my iPad. (God, I sound like a 60-year-old). So I can now write lying down. Service is resumed.

Encouraging words


Read a few of these if you ever have doubts, not just about writing, but about ANYTHING you are doing which can, or has to, be judged using someone’s personal opinion. Here are some of my favourites:

“This is not a book that should be tossed lightly aside. It should be hurled with great force.” Dorothy Parker

“Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae.” Kurt Vonnegut

I’ve been reading reviews of my stories for twenty-five years, and can’t remember a single useful point in any of them, or the slightest good advice. The only reviewer who ever made an impression on me was Skabichevsky, who prophesied that I would die drunk in the bottom of a ditch.” Anton Chekhov

I used to save all my rejection slips because I told myself, one day I’m going to autograph these and auction them. And then I lost the box.” James Lee Burke


And I probably should say “Sentience” (by me) has appeared in Poetic Diversity: