jackdean

Deep in the north, beyond the withered arm of the M1, there is a town where the people catch stars out of the sea, a silent, somnolent market settlement sagging onto a barricade of pebbles that line up in loose file against the dark mongol waves. And every new years day, the people head out in fleets of dinghies and mute anticipation, and dip rods of slow silver under the diaphanous bleakness. And within the same minute up they spring, cold and white and terrified like mad geese in the eccles cake purple night, before they are placed inside...

[Written for the Bristol Old Vic blog. Original article here .] When I was little, I had a board game called Never Ending Stories (nothing to do with the furry-dragoned, slightly disturbing kids movie of the same name). A player would place a hexagonal tile down on a board and attempt to improvise and tell part of a story that corresponded with the picture on the tile, then the next player would do the same, steering inevitably towards either a Happy, Sad, Surprising or Scary ending. This game was a delight for the more verbose and attention-seeking members of...