I love to write fiction. Novels, novellas, short stories, plays, musicals, screenplays, TV treatments. You name it and I've written it.
Fiction writing is one of my true creative outlets. When get in to the writing flow I can completely lose myself in the world I am creating on paper. Once I even missed my bus stop while I was furiously tapping away on my keyboard.
This section of my site is like my writing scratch pad - the area where I write for fun, to test my creative skills, or trial a new idea. The stories here are meant to be fun and entertaining, and sometimes they have no purpose other than to satisfy a personal itch. They are not mean to be polished or prepared for publishing (some are not even edited) but instead they focus on the exploration of creative ideas through writing.
Many stories here feature a character I created called Jack Brumby - a lonely government spy who is languishing as a data analyst, chained to a desk in bureaucratic hell, making observations on the boring political plays of overly zealous public servants. It started as a fun writing habit project, evolved over time and I have since taken this character and written a first draft novel. No promises on if this will ever see the light of day though.
Latest Writing
Data security is kind of a big deal.
Trust me. Not only do I whittle away the best hours of the best days of the best years of my life as a data analyst within a state government department but I am also officially trained as a federal government counter intelligence officer.
Let me tell you about 'Guy'.
His name is not actually Guy. At least, I don't know if that is his name. You see I don't know what his name is so in my head I nicknamed him Guy. I initially called him 'Friendly Asian Guy' but the departmental habit of shortening everything to acronyms is pervasive and I soon realised my mistake.
Greg stalked around the corner, back from his meeting, looking every bit a man ready for action. I watched as he strode past my desk without a second glance. His normal jovial demeanour was gone, replaced with a pursed mouth lurking under his greying ginger beard.
Thrust, parry. Thrust, parry. Thrust, parry.
We retreat to our safe spaces and eye each other warily. My opponent is dangerous and obviously well trained in the nuances of one-on-one combat. They have the slight positional upper hand but so far they have not launched an all out attack. They have been happy to remain safely out of my reach taking sporadic pot shots in order to test my defence.
I have always considered myself a nice guy and yes I know that, according to any number of pop culture references, nice guys finish last. So what? What does that actually mean? Last in what?
Why doesn’t she remember me? I eat breakfast here at least three days a week, sitting at the same table, ordering from the same girl and yet she does not even show a hint of recognition. I am beginning to think that my playful banter is less charming than I give myself credit for.
I'm not one for all that love at first sight bullshit but this was different.
My gaze fell up on her from across the room and my heart beat spiked instantly. She was gorgeous - a wonderful full-bodied specimen dressed in white, with only a glimpse of her caramel skin shining through, and curves in all the right places.
Saturday night. The party night. The pinnacle of the weekend. The time when everything feels great. That moment in which work can be completely forgotten about - far enough removed from Friday afternoon and yet not close enough to Monday to warrant worrying about work. Saturday night is that wonderful time when a few casual drinks with friends turns into a crazy party that somehow results in long and outrageous sex with a beautiful woman you only just met at the bar.
It's hot.
The lady on the seat in front of me is fanning herself with a piece of paper because the air-conditioning unit on the bus is struggling to keep up with the heat and it's only 7am.