Flash – Derec Jones

It’s a collage

It’s a collage, that’s what it is, it’s a coll-fucking-age

Okey Dokey

Don’t ask . . . . . .

Here’s some sort-of abstract works instead

Earth and Sky – Acrylic. 16″ x 12″ Framed and ready to hang £275

Space SOS: Acrylic on canvas – 24″ x 20″

Parallel Universe Two: Acrylic on Canvas. 12″ x 10″ (30cm x 25cm)

Abstract Landscape #2 – Oil on Canvas 80cmx60cm – Price: TBA

Wavy Abstract – – Oil on Canvas 80cm x 60cm – Price: TBA

“Big Stripey” acrylic on canvas – 66cm x 51cm (26″ x 20″)

Here (finished) – Acrylic on Canvas 60cm x 50cm

Here and Now (finished) Acrylic on Canvas 60cm x 50cm

Tân Gwyllt Ebrill: 80x60cm – oil on canvas

Tân Gwyllt I: Oil on Canvas 60xm x 50cm approx

Tân Gwyllt II: Oil on Canvas 60xm x 50cm approx

Tân Gwyllt III: Oil on Canvas 60xm x 50cm approx

Tân Gwyllt IV: Oil on Canvas 60xm x 50cm approx

Autumn Show – Acrylic on heavy box canvas – 1200mm x 1000mm

Orange Mess abstract painting — Orange Mess

Bent String - abstract painting — Bent String

A random bit of live writing (Feb 2016)

How do you choose which bits of your life to focus on when you write or attempt to write some kind of autobiography like this? What are the criteria? Hmm. I suppose it depends on who you are writing to – yes – because when you write, or at least when I write, I have a ‘reader’ in mind, even if that reader is just an abstract notion of myself – my future self. Like a diary I suppose.

But so much happens in just one day, one hour, one second even, if you drill down into the depths of your psyche and think out to the expanse of the universe(s). Continue reading “A random bit of live writing (Feb 2016)”

Some Shadow

The path to the cabin was choked with brambles; that was good. It meant that no one had been near the place for months at least.

Jack laughed.

‘Ssh,’ Emma said.

‘No, it’s all right now,’ he said. ‘Look – there’s no sign of another human being – we’ll be safe here.’

‘But it’s not human beings we’re hiding from, is it Jack?’

‘Of course they’re human beings; you’ve been watching too many episodes of Doctor Who.’

‘Oh shut up. I know what I saw. You saw it too. If that was a person then it was still a monster – more than just a normal person.’

‘Yes, but it’s still got to move around, whatever it is and it would leave traces.’

‘What if it can fly?’ Emma asked.

The sun was blotted by some shadow.

Busted - New Novel almost here

For the Time Being

While working on my next novel ‘Bums’ which will be published in the Spring of 2015, I have been distracting myself by putting together a volume of other bits and pieces, called for the Time Being.

It’s going to end up as a 200 page paperback book and will be published in late October or early November 2014.

For the Time Being is a bringing together of short stories, plays, poems, snippets and other fragments of my writing. Some of it is brand new, other pieces have been lurking in drawers for decades. Some of the work has been exhaustively edited while some is still red raw. Some of the work has already been published on this blog in one form or another, some of it emerged as I was putting the book together.

I don’t know if the book has any commercial viability – probably not, but I don’t really care – it’s primary purpose is as a distraction for me and something for me to read in my dotage – the pure essence of self-publishing if you like.

There will be more information about the book on Opening Chapter’s website when it’s available.

The Time Machine – a short story

“They say that goldfish only have something like a twelve second memory . . .”

“Who says?” I asked. One of my last pleasures – challenging the assumptions of the young.

“I don’t know – they. Anyway, goldfish have no sense of time, they can’t get bored. By the time they’ve swum around the bowl they’ve forgotten what it’s like, so it’s always new and exciting.”

“Oh to be a goldfish,” I sighed. Continue reading “The Time Machine – a short story”

The Black Sheep

He wasn’t much of a ram, small and weak, with no possibility of siring any of the sumptuous ewes that shared the lush green hillsides. He didn’t mind, he had his darling girl. She was tall and thin on her two legs, her hair as black and as thick as his fleece. He knew he was her favourite. Today, she hugged him longer and harder than usual and her eyes were wet with tears. Then she vanished. Later, the big man came back, grabbed his black fleece and dragged him into the back of a lorry.