See, I go away to make a nice cup of tea and look who sneaks in the backdoor (that's not a euphemism btw - or it is - but not in this context).
I'm sure it will have teeth. It might have tentacles and suckers, black eyes and a beak as well . . . at least, here's hoping.
At some point I'd like you discuss your influences on this thread, Bradley.
What were your earliest influences, what helped shape your imagination and what continues to be a source of inspiration to you? Please feel free to link in any artists, films, pictures etc. I'm sure a lot of people would be interested to see where your unique imagination has come from.
(still waiting for your cover to be verified!)
Thanks again for all your contributions. 
Well Iso, here’s a teaser. My story - which will also be ready come New Year, will be a somewhat experimental collection of three interwoven story arcs whose overarching theme is addiction.
I started it a while ago but you just gave me a reason to finish it off.
Here is a tiny snippet
THIS IS NOT AN EXIT
And you, well ur named up in culture - writ large.
Bag-Head.
Smack-Head.
Junkie.
Skeg.
Ur vice is street worded. Urban named.
H, china white, fix, horse, smack, whack, mother pearl, junk.
This is la familiar - yours that is.
Now you're striding along with that junkie gait that’s someplace between a walk and run, all lurching strides eating up the distance to your dealers door like a pissed ship tossed on a pavement of waves only you can feel.
Your clothes – same as yesterday and the day before and the day before and – they hang off a frame grown gaunt as winter twigs. True that when you were fifteen you would never leave the house without whacking on deodorant and aftershave – even though you didn’t shave – and running four fingers of shockwaves through your hair till it stood a-glisten, spiked and proud as a teen on the pull.
Odour of stale days now, scented by neglect and no pride – hell that was the first thing to go.
A paranoid switch-flick of your head, eyes scanning for the Rosser’s before you knock on the blue flat door. Knuckle rap call.
Cold. Not the day – you.
“Who is it,” low slung dropped octaves, dulled by the door.
You tell him. Adding “You got,” the only question.
Even then the door only opens a crack on a mega chain, two eyes burrow through the slant – You thought your paranoia was bad eh. Well, ain’t this the rats lair.
Inside, enshrouded in the temple of your dereliction. Blank floor stark walls, no intrinsic value, nothing to ease the eye, an abode as barren as your soul – voided like a spent lottery ticket, one that won fuck all.
Front room the view is:
Two dudes on a threadbare sofa gouching out, eyes pinned, heads lolled over, barely acknowledge your arrival – ghosted. Girl, teen was hippy-chick once, now just gaunt, sunken eyed with chapped lips, tracked arms over by a small table, foil handed chasing the dragon - like she could ever catch it. Looks up and like it was her very life vapour exhales a lung full of gear, not spent yet, blows it into the mouth of her fellow snow queen, not that she even likes her, it’s just gear ain’t it. Never waste.
Past that, the place is half-lit squalor, curtains drawn, shaded tones of gloom.
ALL grey everything
the downward spiral
Now you stand hunched, solemn. Pending. Ticks afflict you as if your nervous system is in rebellion, minor fidgets, side-side shuffling of your feet, left cheek spasming as if you are trying to wink but can’t manage it. And as you wait, it builds in you like a wild (P)itch. The need
the very desperation of it.
Internal consumption, it eats up every spark of your form as you wait. Wait to sate the thrum of your habit.
It’s always this way - how could it be any other.
You wake from sedation into need, from the shade of forgetful existence into the light of need it now. Comes like a sickness, inches up on you until it’s all there is and always this
Tease. Wait while the dealer gets his shit together. Two sorts of dealers round your way, fellow addicts – unreliable, skank you always sell small wraps of cut gear – and bread heads, money dealers who never touch anything stronger than fags – dangerous twats in it for doe and kicks. Fuck you up as soon as look at you. This one is the former, a fellow bag-head.
Posted: 10/12/2011 13:40:06
Last Edit: 10/12/2011 13:42:45 by Rob1969
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