Travelling along dusk

So, it looks as if this blog hasn't been used for a while. Updated, certainly not; used, it certainly has.

I'm in the process of exhuming some of the posts in the blog and turning them into something else - some short stories, some slight edits/republishes, some as something completely different. Whether or not I will put anything new as posts on here remains to be seen.

I do have another ongoing blog project as it happens:

richardpaulfox.wordpress.com - my literature review/critical analysis blog (essentially a place to store ideas and thoughts before I forget them whilst I'm completing my MA)

I've also had work published in thescreechowl.com and inksweatandtears.co.uk, and I'm working on more short/less short/long-short/novella length stories. More to come on that (either via this or my other blog)

And now, for old times sake, a poem:

I set the flowers down on the kitchen counter and cut the stems down.

I remember you telling me once that they can't be too long, and that they must be

trimmed down at an angle. I remember the angle and

I guess the length and start chopping.

You come home and I usher you into the kitchen to show you the flowers

in the vase, like it's some great surprise. But I know it's not. I know

it's just flowers. But you do like flowers, so I suppose it is still a nice surprise.

I counted the flowers in the bouquet or bunch before I left the store, wondering

if it was enough for you. How many is enough? I don't want to go over the top.

I carry them home. I like holding a bouquet or bunch of flowers as I walk home.

I think it makes me look like I care, like I've got someone to take these to.

Which I'd like to think I do, and I have of course.

You see the flowers and smile the smile of smiles.

I ask if they are okay