Guest posts? The door is always open…

Would you like to write a guest post and be featured on this blog?

If you are a writer, artist or photographer…If you have a poem, story or memoirs to share… If you have a book to promote, a character to introduce, an exhibition or event to publicise… If you have advice for writers, artists or bloggers…

Just get in touch and we can talk.

Why not be my guest?

I don’t bite and I don’t charge.

Elusive Realities

I am also hoping that more people will share their true experiences with those elusive realities that hover on the edge of perception.

You can find a list HERE of all the contributions so far to this series.

If you have had a strange experience or encounter that you would like to share, please get in touch.

I am not looking for sensationalism or fictional tales… but in light of the response to some recent posts, I think it would be both useful and reassuring to others to realise that none of us are alone in these strange encounters and experiences and perhaps we can open discussion on what they may be or may mean.

If you would like to share your story but prefer to remain anonymous, we can discuss that too. If you would like to share your beliefs and opinions on the nature of these experiences, I would be happy to talk about a guest post. Through sharing with respect we may learn to understand our world and each other a little better.

If you would like to be my guest on the Echo, please read the guidelines found HERE or email me at

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Dusk – Kim Blades #writephoto

I love skies and it was easy to respond to Sue Vincent’s photo prompt this week.

The sun descends in the west

and an evening star would shine

except it is hidden behind a nest

of clouds at grey as brine.

Continue reading at Kim Blades

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Losing the plot…

I sat and stared, listening to my mouth continuing about its business. With a curious, detached prescience, I was acutely aware that my words were about to run out. I his name. Needed to end my speech with it. I knew that I knew it. But could I recall it?

I was exhausted, I ached, I’d driven for hours on little sleep… all good reasons. Even so, the blank spot was curious. A ‘senior moment’?

It would have been bad enough were I speaking to a new acquaintance; I am notoriously bad with names in person, though I never forget faces. I pass people in the street, folk I met years ago, and remember them. I can remember the circumstances… even if I only met them briefly in the line of business, but names escape me.

Oddly, though, the people I meet mostly online, I remember by name. It is that first point of contact that seems to matter…that fixes them in memory. My memory seems to prefer to work visually, which probably explains why I take so many pictures. Someone I meet in person will be remembered by their face, but a blogger, for example, will be known, first and foremost, by the name I see on screen, and by the picture they use for their online presence.

Once I get to know a person, though, I don’t forget. Except, apparently, I do. The person I was speaking to was more than a chance acquaintance… it was someone very close to me, someone I love. One of the handful of people at the heart of my world. And he was suddenly nameless.

I seemed to see a thousand lifetimes where our paths had crossed or met, each bearing different names. I listed them in my mind, knowing I would forget them instantly, wishing I could remember them to talk about it later. But the one name I needed eluded me.

While my mouth was busy, I started mentally retracing the steps of our relationship, visualising events, until I found his name ‘written down’ in my imagination. It took no more than a split second, from panic to recall, though the blank spaces felt like eternity.

I could not possibly have said, “What was your name again?” to someone I have known for years! He would either have been mortally wounded, or (more likely) I would never have lived it down having afforded him untold amusement. Anyone a little less close might have been seriously offended… because it matters that people remember our names.

That was what struck me. We label ourselves and our self-image with variations on our name, from the formal names and titles we use in the workplace, to the diminutives, derivatives and roles used by our nearest and dearest. Our names are the one thing we offer unreservedly to the world… and, once given, we expect the world to catch them and retain a good hold. We define them for ourselves… and then allow them to define us.

I wonder why they matter so much? We speak of someone ‘having a good name’ or ‘getting a bad name’, we attach importance to our lineage and, historically, preserving the ‘family name’. Sons who would carry that name forward were prized when daughters who would change their name were not. It is an odd idea.

I have, and have borne, many names, nicknames and ‘titles’ throughout my life. Oddly, the only names that are unchangeably mine … my full forenames… are never used, except when I am in trouble or coming round from anaesthesia, which is pretty much the same thing.

The names that have always mattered most to me have been short, foreign or not really names at all. The three letters of  ‘Sue’ and ‘Mum’, the French version that always came with Leonard Cohen quotes, ‘Grandma’, the hobbit references and the occasional ‘Wendolina’… these are truly ‘given’ names and mean far more to me than their official counterparts, for they were given with love.

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Primitive Minds… Stuart France


“We will never know what they thought, what they were trying to achieve.”

But we still have sun sets and sun rises…

Participate in only a few of these and it becomes pretty clear that there is something missing from our world.

And was their world any different in that respect?

Reblogged from Stuart France

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Dusk #midnighthaiku

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#WritePhoto Dusk Dancing


Dusk Dusk

Dancing while the sun disappeared, under a cloudy sky
We never saw it coming, and were shocked as it went by
Some thought it was a dragon, some saw a giant fox
At first we thought it was a trick of the light, a mirage
The silence covered us like a heavy hanging mystery
We stood on the shore expecting a character from history
To descend on our party to pardon our sins and omissions
To make it all better, to save us, to improve our conditions
We waited in vain for prophecy or guidance to appear
As darkness fell on the crowd, desperation became fear
Down the road in pitch black night the footsteps returned
To home, the safety of the hearth, where fire still burned

#writephoto #writephoto

This is a response to this week’s photo prompt by Sue Vincent on the Echo.  Please join us each Thursday…

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Life at 17

I wish I could write the way I wrote,

But poet in me had just left me broke,

No not my money which was robbed,

But my ability to express was lost,

Maybe those emotions that once engulfed me a lot,

Got adrift as soon as my struggle stopped,

With my dream to get my dream career partially done,

With a new sun rising,

And the clouds somehow shifting,

A dusk giving rise to a new dawn and a new tomorrow.

Though I should be happy that I am no longer sad,

But still that pleasure to hold my pen with emotions folding my page,

Is something I would never cease to miss.

Above poem is in response to:

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