Random musings from an English writer slogging through the trenches of traditional and self-publishing. Following my attempts to eke a living through creative writing, graphic design, whilst writing the kind of novels I like to read.
Sunday, December 28, 2025
Lovers growing old By Mark Shearman
The Chair and the Stair Female vocal written by Mark Shearman
Chair and the Stair Male vocal written by Mark Shearman
Never Enough For You V2 written by Mark Shearman
Collide 2 Another version written by Mark Shearman
Flyaway Song Written by Mark Shearman
Collide Song Written by Mark Shearman
Built To Fade Song Written by Mark Shearman
Saturday, December 11, 2021
Love Grows Old
Listen up so I can tell you a story
From lovers growing old
Some wait for fate and glory.
Some would aspire to be bold
The lover walks among the flowers
Wallowing in the sun
Wondering why she left him alone
And out there having fun
The music fades but the song remains.
Love has left us with a lingering pain
Souls are forgotten as results are driven
Reminding us we should all be forgiven
Can you remember the ace I played
Stranded in the middle of a debt repaid
Hoping for a long time
That you would be incline
We learn too late as the night falls
How close we came to distant shores
Snatching at the sky, desperate to see
A sliver of hope of a world that could be
Don’t give in if the pace is slow
Success achieved with another blow
Fresh eyes stare at the skies
Contemplate where this all lies
Can you remember the ace I played
Stranded in the middle of a debt unpaid
Hoping for a long time
That you would be mine
Level the playing field with another blow
Don’t give in if the pace is slow
What the hell is it we all gain
Yearning for a change a different domain
Come with me now, it’s time to go
Floating on a promise of a different show
Forever loved you soon will be
Sailing on a wave of love’s glee
Listen and I'll tell a story
About lovers growing old
Some would wait for fate and glory
Fortune favours the bold
The lovers walk among the flowers
Wallowing in the sun
She no longer cares why she left him alone
Now she is out there having fun
Sherm
Saturday, December 4, 2021
Emma
Wine upon the table
You creep across the lawn
Your dress across the chair
Now present in my bed
Skies darkening to night
Hope fills my life once forlorn
Sherm
Tuesday, November 23, 2021
A Tree House for Shelby (Scene Extract)
Dylan, nervous and apprehensive, observed as she thoughtfully stepped along the forest floor catching every sunbeam that pierced through the low flamboyant, floppy, canopy above. She shone, her hair shiny black, long and loose. A knee-length flowing, thin cotton dress, in the sunlight, failed to hide the contours of her body. Espadrille ribbons tied high around her cut calves a delicateness to this feminine beauty.
She was enchanting. Her name Shelby Bennet, singer, songwriter, and recently awarded the status of American A-list actress. Dylan was trounced floating above the clouds then brought back to earth with a screech.
“What the fuck, fuckwit, are you playing at? You were supposed to wait for my specific revised instructions are you purposely building what can only be described as something out of a Tolkien novel. Do I look ten? Do I look like I have children?”
She shuddered
like the actress hamming up her point. “What line were you in when God was
distributing brains you moronic, pathetic, Tarzan wannabe and you,” she pointed
at Jake who was stunned and squirming.
“You, flunky sidekick banana boy, get the hell off my property.”
This all said
with Dylan’s camera crew behind her. Referring to Jake as banana boy due to his
hearing aid.
“Technically Tolkien's Hobbits lived
underground well half-and-half and my brother’s earpiece is five thousand
pounds worth of state of the art..."
“I don't care,”
she screeched interrupting him.
Dylan's anxiety level heightened. “Bollocks! We worked to your exact
instructions you approved my drawings.”
“Clearly not,” she paused and looked at the camera. “Imagine,” she said, in a low voice as if moving from one side of the stage to the other pointing at the air, “a faraway place,” her voice changed to a raging scream, “now go there and hope those idiot people value your opinion and don't think I am paying for this lot you better remove it quick before the press get a picture of it – oh wait a minute – too late.” She false laughed in his face.
Dylan had tuned out and was sucking up the smell of her fresh, floral perfume. She had tiny wispy hairs on her and arms and glowed with a subtle amount of perspiration. He thought she was magnificent. Jake’s late retort brought him back to reality.
"What is wrong with you lady?" said Jake in his dull tone nearly stuttering with anger and signing at the same time.
“Don't want to hear it,” she waved him away shooing him with her fingers.
A black jeep skidded to a halt beside her. She climbed in and purposely instructing the driver to accelerate, and wheel spun in a puddle of mud. Plastering them with earthy sludge. They stood dripping in cold shock to the delight of the camera crew and producers.
“You have two
hours to vacate my property then I will unchain the hounds,” she yelled.
“What!” screamed Jake, “you bleeding…
people don't behave like that in polite society. That's what separates us from
the monkeys you Neanderthal.”
“Wow, easy saber-toothed tiger, that was cutting,” said Dylan, side glancing
the camera trying to lighten his bravado, his sarcasm enraged Jake further. Dylan
grabbed his arms stopping him from launching his claw hammer at the Jeep. An
action he would never normally do as he was way too hippy passive.
“What a controlling bitch. What is her problem and why didn't you say something?” said Jake.
“I'm speechless. I can’t explain,” he whispered and signed. He felt bad for lying, he knew why he just didn't expect such an over-the-top reaction from her.
Jake eyed him as if a light bulb switched on. “You slept with her didn’t you!”
Dylan sighed, raised a jaunty eyebrow, stared with brooding intensity at his brother and then flicked his eyes to the side as if to say we are still on camera.
“Does that tool belt come with tampons you pussy tell me the truth,” said Jake, playing to the camera.
“Get the equipment and tools together I'll try to find out what just happened.” Dylan smothered the camera lens with his hand forcing it to fade to black.
After his last meeting with Shelby, which there had been five, mostly with abusive hissy-fit tantrums, where she called him bad skinned, beer, seamen breath. He wrote a negative, criticising letter to this awkward pain in the ass, prima-donna to vent his feelings and frustration at her outrages demands and petulant behaviour. He never sent it; he would never commit anything in writing that was negative.
The internet has taught people to stop making public shows of themselves, which later could haunt them. Dylan’s father gave him advise and not all of it was misogynistic. He often repeated about Abraham Lincoln's self-control and understanding criticism is pointless. Lincoln realised pointedly chastising someone, especially in writing, only made them defend themselves, justifying their actions. It hurts someone’s pride, arouses resentment and in 1842 almost got him killed in a duel to the death after he publicly ridiculed, through the local newspaper, an obnoxious politician named James Shield. At the last minute, the duel was cancelled leaving Lincoln contemplative.
Dylan wrote the email to vent his anger whilst clutching a glass of his old man’s favourite flavour, Old Monk Indian rum. Somehow it was sent, maybe one of the other carpenters saw it and couldn't resist or he drunk sent it.
A Tree house for Shelby (Scene Extract)
Three days of constant stinging rain, howling, battering winds, bending trees and flying palm leaves; followed by four days of scorching heat and repetitive despair. The drinking water was gone, the well had collapsed and started to expel a putrid odour. Dylan didn't have the energy to dig another hole or fish in the choppy sea. It all seemed hopeless as he watched the fire slowly die. He tuned Shelby’s constant moaning out.
He was sick of the astringent tang of purple crabs and the redolent scent of the fire smothering their ragged clothes. The fresh clean air heightening his senses into a microsmatic level of smelling ability. Petrichor, the earths sent before the rain, filled the air. “Not again when is it going to stop”. He could swear the wind, as it whistled in from the sea and across the beach, carried with it the smell of putrescine from the decomposing bodies he had buried.
Deflated, Dylan stood up slow and jerked as if the life had been kicked out of him, he had enough energy to push down on his knees with his hands and slouched towards the sea in a simulated drunken stupor. He flopped into the water weightless, laid on his back and marvelled at the bright stars, relaxed now, almost as if he was at peace with himself as he floated further out. Shelby screamed out after him. He continued and focused on the beautiful bright starry sky.
Only the briny air filled his nostrils now helping him to clear his head. Shelby's screaming faded out and he found himself at a deeper tranquillity of mind sinking benefit the salty water. Thoughts of his mum and how she used to be constantly criticising, moaning and judging. His father would say that even though your mother seems a little crazy and nasty at times when she was being nice it was the best thing in the world and without her, he would have been nothing. He never understood the last part of his father’s recurring statement. Maybe it all meant that a woman could be a sail or an anchor.
A bubble of air with the word Shelby trapped inside released from Dylan’s open mouth. Snatching at the water, he moved his arms to swim to the surface. His instinct for survival had kicked in. The will to live suddenly became stronger, as something he thought about woke him up. Weak, he struggled to muster the strength. Reaching the surface, he sucked in salt water and through his eyes the world faded to black.
His body washed up on shore again he was barely alive. Desperately, she pounded on his chest and blew air into his lungs until he spat out sea water and sucked in air – a gargled mixture of both. Face creased with anger, she delivered a round of punches to his chest and one to the jaw shouting, “you selfish bastard you leave me here on my own to die a slow, miserable, death eaten by turtles.” Scowling, Shelby fell back into the wet sand and held her hand over her mouth to muffle her nervous laugh at the turtle comment.
