Catch up with me at Twitter

Hi,

Just thought I'd say, you can catch up with me on Twitter. I'll be posting random bits of writing here:

http://twitter.com/paulbernard

Cheers,

Paul.

Thank you and goodnight

Well, it has been 12 months since I first set up my Blogger account and started my yearlong quest to keep writing and publishing.
I pretty much managed it, every week day, throughout 2008 (with a few short breaks, for my sanity) but now I must bring the journey to a close.
I wasn’t sure if I’d get through the year without admitting defeat. I’m glad I stuck it out. I also wasn’t sure if anyone would read the stories. I have been so proud, this past year, that people I’ve never met should take the time to read and comment on my writing.
I never tried to publicise the blog much, and for a while I didn’t have many readers. But that all changed when Blogger awarded me ‘Blog of Note’ status for The Daily Tale (my non-picture based story blog).
Overnight, I found myself with an audience of thousands, plus many commentators, which was exciting and a little overwhelming at once. It was difficult to hold everyone’s attention. I’m not sure which parts of the year were my creative peaks, or whether the blog’s popularity coincided with these. I often found the most popular pieces were not the ones I expected, or my favourites, but I was glad people liked them (or at least felt moved to comment) all the same.
Anyway, a nice collective of people stayed interested through the course of The Daily Tale, but I needed to freshen up the blog to keep me interested in it. So, halfway through the year, I opened up a new blog – this one – The Daily Postcard. My idea was to separate the two blogs and keep each as distinct archives of my work.
The Daily Postcard gave me a chance to publish many of the photos I’ve been taking over the last couple of years, and also use them as the basis for writing stories. Sometimes the confines of the picture were a blessing to the writing process, sometimes a hindrance. Still, it was a fine experiment, I think.
I’d particularly like to thank the crop of readers who stayed with me until the end of the project and for all your kind comments and support. It’s especially pleasing that you guys are all such fantastic bloggers and having such superb writers as yourselves reading my work, and hopefully enjoying it, is something I’ve cherished. I’ll have more time to read your blogs now so keep up the great work.
It will be strange not to write every day, but I’m looking forward to exploring other creative outlets (such as music) and then I’ll get back to writing, either some full length short stories, or perhaps a novella, or something bigger…
Rest assured, as I come up with short tales and other ideas I will post them either to the Daily Tale or Daily Postcard sites so keep an eye out for them!
Ok, well I think that’s it from me. All that’s left to say is – thanks, so much, for reading.

Paul.

The living and the dead

Sebastian,

I trust this note finds you - it’s difficult to track you down at the best of times. Still, if you’ve been trying to get in touch with me, you won’t have managed it and I’ve sadly missed out on your fine words.
What must be must be, though, Sebastian. I was thrown from my digs a few months back and had to find whatever shelter I could. The church saved me.
Now, some people say it’s hard to be dead but I just don’t agree. I’ve been living in the grounds of this church for a while now and not noticed their hardship. The dead sleep better than the living and, when they wake, they have little to worry them. The dead do not disturb me.
Sometimes I’ve heard them whispering or moving rocks and leaves about, but they’re not interested in me. I’m as dead as they are.
It’s not been all fine here, but the priest is an understanding fellow and turns a blind eye to us, as often as he can. We stay out of the churchyard in the day, when people might be visiting. It’s a large cemetery and crypt here at St Theresa’s and it’s been easy to hide our existence from others. Fr Mead has warned us that if a needle is found in the churchyard he will be forced to call the police. I regard that as only fair.
I’m staying here with some friends – Millie, who I’m very fond of, also Gregor and his brother Tony. There was an incident a few months back, a group of guys throwing rocks and insults at us. We managed to get away from them, but they trashed our stuff.
The next day, we were drinking and Millie went back early because she felt ill and needed to sleep. They were waiting; she said it was the same guys. They were merciless with her. It brings me such pain to recall the sight of her when we found her there.
She said she’d be alright, that it wasn’t the first time it had happened. She didn’t want to go to hospital because they’d involve the police and then we’d all be moved on. So we looked after her as best we could. The men never came back.
I’m sorry I don’t have brighter news for you, Sebastian. Maybe I’ll see you, friend, next time you’re near the old church? Know that I think of you, often.

Your friend,

Robert.

The fish wife

When the fish started talking to the man, rather than being staggered, the man simply found the sea creature rather rude.
The fish had interrupted a perfectly lovely conversation between the fellow (a middle-aged man, called Leonard) and a pretty young thing he had met at the docks.
The fish began to bleat quite pathetically: “My name is Susan, and I shall not be ignored!” The man, Leonard, tried his best to ignore this imposition for as long as he could, knowing full well that, were he to engage the fish in conversation, his pretty young conquest would soon turn heel and run.
But, just as a guilty conscience bangs the head like a hammer and nail, so the streamlined fish continued to shout up from the water: “I’m still here Leonard, stop ignoring me at once. I will be spoken to, remember, I need you to purchase some items for me – from the store.”
Leonard ignored the blue-eyed fish for as long as he could. He liked the way the young girl smiled at him and touched his hand occasionally. This was a sign of affection that his wife, Susan, never offered him.
“Who are you talking to up there?” snapped the fish, swimming out and away from the quayside to better sight the young woman.
“Hah! Why she’s nothing other than a common whore. Stop wasting your pathetic lusts on this floozy and run along to the shop to fetch my supplies,” shouted the fish, slapping with its tail to send a spray of water up to soak the couple. “I shall make you very sorry if you do not!” came its companion cry.
With that, Leonard’s calm reserve subsided and he turned upon the fish with a volley of verbal abuse. “You fish wife, you scaly serpent, your gills are blocked shut with venom which you spit forth at your erstwhile husband. Why, I should not hope to meet such a slippery eel as yourself again, and yet I find myself tied to you for eternity in matrimonial bondage!”
The fish chuckled to itself, at this tirade, and the pretty young maid did indeed turn fleet-footed from the scene and the middle-aged man was left to trudge wearily to the grocer’s store and purchase the few items she had sent him for.
Then he walked slowly, back to the quayside, and upended the brown paper bag of groceries into the water, whereby Susan, the blue-eyed fish, hungrily gobbled up this new and tasty flotsam.
She then waited, maintaining her position through small bristling movements of her fins, as her husband clambered down the rusting iron ladder on the wharf and plopped into the cold waters, beside her.
“Come along, dear,” said Susan, and they both swam off, away from the docks and on into deeper waters.