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