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I'm a writer. I string words together to hack into people's minds.

I could work with you to build the story from ground up, help with worldbuilding or flavour text, or help out with character motivation and general plot weakness.

I have written produced plays, poetry, short stories, and I currently run an online magazine. I spend my days studying English Literature and cursing my past for my ruinous life choices. I can write anything from comedy to science fiction to fantasy to Krautrock influenced post-expressionism.

Samples of my writing:

http://www.thefacepalm.in/2013/03/deja-vu.html (http://www.thefacepalm.in/2013/03/deja-vu.html) Short story dialogue experiment

www.thefacepalm.in/2013/02/a-good-day-to-dissect-die-hard.html (http://www.thefacepalm.in/2013/02/a-good-day-to-dissect-die-hard.html) Film Analysis

http://www.thefacepalm.in/2013/11/poem-on-underestimation.html (http://www.thefacepalm.in/2013/11/poem-on-underestimation.html) Comic poetry


Some of my favourite things:

Videogames: Fallout 1,2,New Vegas, Spec Ops The Line, Portal, Rayman Origins, Old School Mario, The Dungeons of Dredmor, Limbo, The Walking Dead.

Writers: Douglas Adams, Bill Shakespeare, Wodehouse, Snicket, Fitzgerald, Hemingway.

Message me if you want us to come together for a bountiful harvest.
Cheers.

But can you write a good sad dog story?

I can paint you a depressed mongrel. What sort do you want?

The first one is rhythmic.

It wasn't survival of the fittest, not quite. Only to a fashion, in the cursory sort of way that's hastily slapped together when a supervisor's slated to visit. In theory, it was a meritocracy. Golly had seventh street all to herself, but if Dave decided that the bright red on his hydrant was getting corroded into rust red, he could have a copious drink of water and slosh his way to seventh, chase off Golly, and proceed to douse the place.
This wasn't survival, though, mostly just decor. The real battles happened near the pizza restaurants, where the mangiest mongrels shed blood every day to scarf down the daily stream of crusty crescents. But every neighbourhood had trash cans, and there was enough to go around.
If you walked down main avenue as far as it went, and walked along the subway line to Midbrough, this changed. The trash there was TV dinner trays licked clean, chocolate and breadcrumbs lining wrappers, fruit brought for the vain effort of eating healthier thrown out as it cycled through shades of the rainbow.
Here the dogs fought less. Not for want of trying, mind. They prowled and growled and bristled as they circled an empty chip bag, and left off the closure. One dog would raise its paw in mock attack, and the other would recoil in a critical moment of weakness.
The battle was already over. One dog would thrust its snout into the bag. The other scurried back into the shadows without the dignity of having wounds to lick.