WhatsApp 101. (Technical Writing)

WhatsApp is an excellent phone app for communicating with friends, family, and coworkers. The ability to have one-on-one conversations, group chats, send images, videos, and sound clips, make it a valuable tool in modern society, especially in our current time of maintaining social distance. 

If you need more detailed instructions for any part of the guide below then please click on any relevant word which is highlighted in blue. This is a hyperlink that will take you to a separate document which will further detail anything regarding the selected word.


The key to WhatsApps’ success is its ease of use. One you have downloaded the app from your mobile store of choice, setting up conversations takes only a few seconds.

Your WhatsApp home screen will look something like this. All of your conversations will be displayed here. On your first use though, you won’t have any contacts or conversations, so this screen will be empty. To add contacts and start talking, simply click on the green circle indicated below.


This takes you to the Contact screen. All of the people you have added will show up here. 


To start a conversation, you will first need to add a contact by clicking the ‘New Contact’ button circled below.


You will now see the ‘New Contact’ screen. This is where you add the name, phone number, and any other details for the person you want to speak with. The mobile phone number is the only necessary information needed, so make sure you have access to your contact’s phone number before trying to add them.


Once you are happy with the contact’s details, simply click on the small tick in the upper right of your screen and that contact will be saved.


Now that you have a contact, you can begin talking. Tap on your contact’s name from the ‘Select Contact’ screen and you will be taken to a fresh chat page for that contact.


From here you can:

Type messages in the bottom text box.


Attach files by clicking the paperclip icon.


Take photos, select pictures saved to your phone, or send video clips, by tapping the camera icon.


Record voice clips by holding down the green microphone button.


Start a phone call by tapping the phone icon at the top of the screen.


Or a video call by tapping the image of a video camera.


All of this enables you to keep in contact with whoever you need to, in any way that best suits your needs and situations. 

But sometimes you will need to communicate with multiple people about a single topic or project. This requires the creation of a Group. 

To create a Group, return to the ‘Select Contact’ screen and tap on the ‘Create Group’ button at the top.


This will take you to a list of all of your contacts. Make sure that you have added everyone that you want in a group as an individual contact already via the instructions above.


Tap on each contact that you want to add to the group, then once everyone you want in the group has been selected, tap the green arrow button in the bottom right of the screen.


Once you have named the group, you will now be able to communicate with everyone in the group with the same ease and access to tools as an individual chat. 

For both individual and group chats, you will receive a notification every time a message is sent to you or a group you are a member of. This is useful for keeping up to date with conversations but can interrupt your day if too many messages are being sent that don’t require your immediate attention. 

If this is the case then you can mute conversations by tapping on the three dots icon in the upper right of any chat screen. This will bring up a small menu. One of the options will be ‘Mute notifications’.

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The other people in the conversation won’t know that you have muted them, and all messages will still appear in the chat, you just won’t be notified. This means you can read new messages in your own time.

The Last Day

Today is the last day of my life.

Ignore the inconvenient fact that this is the seventh day in a row that I had declared as such. As it turns out, setting into motion the end of my existence was proving to be more troublesome than I had imagined. The irony that I was failing at ending a life of failures was not lost on me.

That is my life. Failure. I’m too good for this shitty world. That is the only explanation. Everyone is against me because they are jealous. My art should have made me rich and inspired the hearts and souls of people all across the world, but instead, here I was. Miserable and alone. Well not anymore. Fate was in my hands.

At first I attempted the tried and true method of a razorblade. There I was, blade primed across the throbbing veins of my wrist, my heart pounding but resolute. I nicked the skin and saw the first beads of blood form. Then, quite without warning, I passed out. You see, I’m deathly afraid of blood, and the slightest sight of it always renders me unconscious. I had figured that a swift enough action, combined with the iron will of committing to death, would have avoided such a reaction, but alas, my feeble body betrayed me, just like everyone else. Continue reading

1. (Something Like Life)

I watch as the world passes by without me. From my perch atop the old Record Ridgway factory, I can see for miles across the city. The void is calling me. It’s the only thing that ever does. 

I’m just high enough to trigger that strange human urge to jump, but low enough to know that, unless I’m lucky, the fall would only break my bones. Cold stone and corrugated sheeting surround me, rust, broken glass and thick moss covering everything like a post-apocalyptic botanical garden of abandonment. 

I sit on the concrete lip and admire the frescoes of graffiti that punctuate the 1930s architecture. Ninety odd years didn’t seem too long a time, all things considered, but the view from here has changed drastically in that time. So has the world. The men who had worked their trade in the factory below were long gone. My granddad had been one of them. The company was sold to an American firm, and all production moved to China. Sheffield Steel couldn’t hold a candle to Chinese slave labour apparently.

Despite the brooding figure that I may strike, I am no vigilante or prowler of the night. In fact, it’s eight in the morning on a cold Tuesday, and I’m hunched up in a little ball up here with a pounding headache after drinking a full bottle of Jack the night before. Why choose a derelict factory? Why not? I find it a good place to reflect. The factory, like me, is little more than a ghost. 

My manuscript had been rejected by every agent once again, and my healthy coping mechanism had of course been to resort to excessive levels of alcohol. I’m pretty sure that I’d decided to kill myself as the weight of my failure pulled me down into the dark depths of depression, but I’d got distracted at some point by drunken thoughts and ended up building a Lego house when I found an old box of the stuff while searching for a rope. Feeling groggy and strangely reflective, I’d wandered up to the factory when I woke and couldn’t fall back to sleep again. I always end up here when I need to think. Maybe I’m here to contemplate life. Maybe I’m here to end it.

Time always passes in erratic waves up here, as though the weathered stone is caught between two conflicting presents. Look down and the world is a hectic kaleidoscope of colours and movement as thousands of people go about their meaningless lives. Look up and all is a slow churn of blue, white and grey as clouds creep across the skyline, stretching and shifting their shapes subtly, almost unnoticeably. 

As someone who spends far too much time staring at the clouds, and also as someone with what is often insultingly called a philosophical nature, you’d imagine that I’d wax lyrical about the sky. Many poets had. But then, at the end of the day, what even is the sky? A big old pile of nothing. I wandered lonely as a cloud… Ha! Sure. This is England. Every cloud and their mother are up there partying it up. A British cloud wouldn’t know loneliness if loneliness hijacked a plane and flew straight through it.

This mess of idle thoughts is pretty common. Welcome to my mind. Watch the low door frame as you enter and don’t bother wiping your feet as the place is a shithole already. To the right we have alcohol dependence, and down the corridor you’ll find self-deprecating humour and an empty room where I’m told the emotions should have been installed, but nobody ever got around to it. There are cracks in the walls big enough to slide your hand through, and the roof is held on by duct tape. It may not be much, but it’s where my thoughts call home.

“Now then, Quasimodo! Get down here before that ugly mug of yours puts some poor gargoyle out of the job.” 

I sigh, consider ignoring the voice for a moment, then glance down. Corgi wouldn’t go away because of something as simple as me ignoring his very existence. This was a shame, since the cold terror of the void was usually better company than the pudgy excuse for a man that had invaded my sanctuary. 

“That’s not what your mum was saying last night.”

“Really? Your mum jokes? I expected more wit from you. Has the drinking finally killed off your last brain cells? Anyway, my mum’s dead, so joke’s on you.”

“Decomposition produces a surprising amount of heat. A half rotted corpse provides more warmth than my last girlfriend, and the silence of the grave is a welcome change from the usual incessant chatter.”

“Cheery fucker, aren’t you?”

“You know you love me for it.”

“Someone’s got to. If I stop talking to you then nothing would stop you throwing yourself off there.”

“You’ve quite the ego. Who do you think drives me to come up here in the first place?”

I contemplate just how much of a bastard Corgi is as I edge myself from my perch and begin the short journey through the inner ruins of the once proud unit. The tools here had been world famous, the workers well respected, and now it was empty and half flooded, a heaven for street artists and urban explorers. 

It doesn’t take long until I slip out of the factory and squeeze through a hole in the metal fence near where Corgi was waiting for me. We hate each other. It’s really the best foundation for a friendship you can have. It takes effort to hate, so it only makes sense to reserve it for people you can just about tolerate.

I take a final look at the shell of former industrial glory. You can almost see the shadows of the workers, ghosts of a dead age. I find them pleasant company. They don’t buy me drinks though, so I have to turn my attention to less favourable souls like Corgi and the lads.

We leave the factory and weave through streets until we reach the city centre. A fine drizzle is in the air, but that’s nothing surprising. The cold bites at me. It’s nice to feel something. As we walk, we trade small talk, mostly about video games. It’s all we ever really talk about. Most other topics spiral towards depression with surprising speed. Politics, the environment, relationships, careers, or aspirations, all of them are sensitive subjects these days.

The Bible-bashers are out in force today, their signs and stands filled with booklets cluttering the already cluttered pavement. One is set up next to a homeless man. They each ignore the other’s existence. I don’t really get it. I’m no God botherer, but my general understanding is that kindness and charity were the foundations of faith. Yet these guys stand around all day with their signs, oblivious to the real world suffering around them. Give food to the poor, raise money for the homeless, lobby for better education. Hell, fuck off abroad for some charity or other helping out developing nations. Do anything. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t do anything either. But unlike them, I don’t pretend to care. 

Corgi grabs one of the booklets as we pass and leafs through it. He stops at every image of a woman and holds it up for me to see.


“Too old.”


I consider the picture with the same scrutiny that a fine art dealer would examine a Da Vinci painting. “Passable. Good body. Weird eyes though.”

“Ooh, what about this one?”

“I’d nail that one like Christ on the cross.”

Corgi laughs then slings the booklet into a bin as we pass. With enough boredom, you turn everything into a game. The more bored you are, the shittier the game. Casual sexism roulette is an easy one. Devalue others because you don’t value yourself.

I cheer up a little as we reach our destination. Nothing quite warms the soul like a sign for a J.D. Wetherspoon. I pull open the door and bow theatrically to Corgi as I let him past. The pub is quiet this time of day. Huddled close to the bar are a handful of older men, mostly ex-labourers of one kind or another, who sit nursing pints of John Smiths. They show up every day at nine o’ clock on the dot when alcohol could be served, and stayed there for most of the day. This place was the closest to a home that they had, and it was a sight mirrored in every pub across the country.

Slightly further back than the pissheads are the old biddies sipping their fifth refillable coffee and gnawing at a slice of toast that they had started eating an hour ago. This was another universal constant. 

A young girl is manning the bar. She looks slightly haggard. My expert eye knew a hangover when it saw one. Probably a student. The faces of the bar staff change every time I visit, though they all have a slightly worn quality to them. The key is to mix up which pubs you visit on a regular basis so none of them can get used to your destructive lifestyle and feel pity for you. Variety is the spice of life after all. That’s where the old pissheads went wrong. They became part of the furniture and the staff know exactly how sad their lives are. When your eventual funeral is made up of more Spoonies than actual family and friends, you know you fucked up somewhere.

“I’ll have a BBQ burger and a vodka tonic,” I tell her in a voice pitched low enough to ease her headache. Her eyes seem to thank me. It always pays to be nice, at least when it takes absolutely zero effort to do so. 

“Dude, it’s twenty past nine in the morning,” Corgi says accusingly. His voice makes the girl wince. He has that effect on people.

“Yeah, you’re right. Make it a double.”

“Burger or vodka?”


“Double vodka tonic isn’t covered in the deal.”

“Better throw in a cider while you’re at it then please.”

She shrugs and taps away slowly on the screen. Corgi orders a large mixed grill, then we take our drinks and settle into a corner table as far from anyone else as possible. I quickly down the vodka then nurse the cider as we wait for the food.

“So how’s the writing going?” Corgi asks me. 

“Well, I’m sat in a Wetherspoons drinking before ten. My spirits are clearly high.”

“Nobody liked your story then?”

“Fuck if I know. That knowledge requires communication. What I get is the cold silence of jack shit. But hey, it was only two years’ hard work. No real loss, right?”

“I don’t know why you keep trying. You clearly aren’t very good at it.”

I’m torn between dry sarcasm and trying to defend myself. I could explain that agents receive hundreds of submissions every week, but that sounds like an excuse even as I think of the words. I’m not sure I even believe it either. Maybe I am just not good enough. That would be more fitting with my usual MO. Sarcasm it is then.

“Tell me again how your apprenticeship went. You know, the one that would guarantee you a job for life? Oh, that’s right! You did unskilled grunt labour for pennies, then got let go the second they’d have to start paying you minimum wage.”

“Point taken.” Corgi looks deflated, and I almost feel sorry for him, but then the food arrives and his emotions instantly bounce skyward. He tucks in and I have to respect his ability to devour steak without wasting time on such menial things as chewing. I return to the bar a few times and start to reach that perfect state where time ceases to have meaning. It’s only when a shadow passes over me that I really look up from my latest drink. 

Three men of varying shades of ugliness are standing over us. In generous terms, they are what could loosely be described as the rest of ‘The Lads’. Tink is a tall fellow with that wide kind of build that isn’t fat or muscular, just kind of there. Larry is scrawny with a shaved head and a sense of fashion that screamed neo Nazi, even though he is soft as a brush and listens to shitty teen pop, while Toto is dark skinned with dreadlocks and an ever present smile.

“Are you boys ready for tonight?” Larry asks, clapping his hands together.

“Yesh,” I answer. I may be drunk. Fuck if I know. A drunk guy should be the last person you trust to make a judgement call about anything.

Toto gathers up my empties and shakes his head. He’s still smiling. It’s vaguely unnerving.

“It isn’t eleven yet and you’ve had three doubles,” he tells me, as if I didn’t know that already.

“And a cider,” I add proudly. “You said we’d do pre-drinks.”

“Yes. An hour or so before we go out. At eleven. PM.”

“PM, AM, easy mistake to make. You’re still going to have a drink, right?”

Toto’s smile grows, showing off his pearly white teeth. “Of course. My round. Though, I think pints will do us for now.”

“Whatever you say, chief.”

I settle further into my seat as Tink and Larry join us around the table. Corgi chats with them about any old bollocks. I’m not really listening. A war is raging inside my skull, the alcohol fueling both sides like the Americans at the beginning of every war. On one hand I was drunk and surrounded by friends with a party on the horizon. On the other, I was drunk and fucking miserable. Part of me wanted to brood, the other part wanted to laugh. My body compromised by hiccuping then slamming my head onto the table.

“You have bad coping methods, my friend,” Toto tells me as he returns with the drinks. This doesn’t stop him from handing me my cider though. Toto’s good like that.

“We can’t all have your cheerful disposition,” I say without raising my head. The words come out mumbled.

“We each hold the key to our own happiness.” 

Toto speaks with a calm assurance. The sentence holds warmth and confidence, enough to convince you that the world wasn’t really all that bad. 

This time I do laugh. 

“All I seem to be holding is cheap alcohol, so maybe you’re right.”

“You are a clever man. Don’t beat yourself up. The world is all too eager to do it for you. Keep trying. All you need is a little luck, and luck is nine tenths probability. Try enough and you have to get lucky eventually.”

I can’t help but to chuckle. Toto is that rare breed known as an optimist. To him, the glass is always half full, even if it’s being smashed over his head. Not that anyone would dare to try that. He has an intimidating presence that’s at odds to his nature, kind of like Larry, except Larry is as fearsome as a wet bit of bog roll, while I have no doubt that Toto really can fuck a man up. With him and Tink, we lesser mortals have a nice shield between us and any threats that our drunken antics might incur on any given night.

“I wish I had your optimism, mate. Maybe it’s easier to be happy when you’re a cheery bastard. I’m preconditioned to see the worst in everything. Frankly, I think you’re a naive idiot living in a dream world of rainbows and ignorance. But hey, you know what they say: Ignorance is bliss.”

“You are wrong,” Toto says, his eyes suddenly hardening in some undefinable way. “You take the easy path. To be negative is simple. It’s optimism that takes real strength. You call it naive, but to see pain and think you are powerless to make others’ lives better is what’s truly naive.”

We all stare at him wide-eyed. Even I find myself speechless, and that’s pretty damn uncommon. It’s Larry who finally speaks up after taking a large gulp of his hipster real ale.

“Bloody hell, you two. Without drawing the obvious race card, why’s it always have to be black and white? Middle of the road. That’s where most things live.”

“Why would anything live in the middle of the road?” I snap. “Bloody stupid place to live. You’d get hit by a fucking car, dickhead.”

Toto’s eyes soften again and he breaks into a booming laugh that instantly lifts the mood of the room. Well, our moods anyway. The crones scowl at him with that thinly veiled racism that English grannies have mastered. 

Tink drains the last of his lager and stands up. Watching him stand is like watching a deckchair unfold. 

“Right, lads! That’s me done. I have to pick up Tommy then run errands before getting ready. I’ll see you all tonight, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah!” Corgi chips in, his metaphorical tail wagging excitedly. “A good party is just what we need. Some drinks and some pretty girls. It’ll help us all forget the shitshow that is our lives. It’s going to be great!”

I don’t even have the energy to stamp on his heart and tell him no women will spend a second in his company. The alcohol is hitting me hard now. I’ve passed the equilibrium and am on the rough side of the curve. I try to stand but can’t.

“Agreed!” I nod. “I just need to cool off for a bit first. Anyone fancy carrying me home? It seems my legs have forgotten how to be legs.”

Tink and Toto exchange glances. Finally Tink shrugs. “Fine. Just don’t throw up down my collar again.”

Next – 2.

Truth Lies Beyond the Lines

The sun shone brightly as John Solorus made his way down the suburban street toward the local church. He had already helped a lost woman that morning and felt that he had done his good deed for the day. Not that he intended to stop at only one. Clouds loomed on the horizon, threatening to cover the sun and bring rain but he did not mind. Today was a good day. 

Just as he was nearing the wide wooden doors of the church he saw that an elderly lady was handing out copies of ‘Good morning magazine’. Slowing, he bought one with a smile and entered the church with it tucked beneath his arm. The vicar had not begun his service yet so John seated himself and opened up the magazine. He skipped past the first few pages that were dedicated to a young man from the village who had been killed in Afghanistan, instead favoring the more cheery articles about charity and marriage. Reading too much into negative things just left him sad and angry. Not like his wife who loved to read sad things like Shakespeare.

Despite the sun, inside the church was cold and grey, lit only by carefully arranged candles and what light was able to flood through the stained glass windows. John liked the atmosphere. Most modern churches were too bright and clean cut. They had no soul. If it was up to him, all churches would be grand buildings of stone fit for the Lord’s worship.

Mrs Clenmoor entered the building and took her seat on the front row of pews. She offered him a slight nod of her head. She was short and wore clothes that had not been in fashion for decades. The clothes hung from her bony body. She too was devote of faith. Continue reading

The Lost Watchmaker


The Father, the Son and the bastard ghost

The mirage in the sweltered landscape of humanity

As true as anything in a false world

Of false people who wander through life

Like sheep to be flocked

Wish away our problems

Wish away our responsibilities

To dwell in the darkness of our minds

Lit by a flickering bulb of yellow

When the sun is just outside

Who are we to deny the Lord

We the animals grown beyond our bounds

We who are gods and madmen

Warped mirrors of ourselves

As we are warped mirrors of Him

And He is a warped mirror of us

All powerful in a powerless world

All seeing among the blind

All knowing to those bathed in ignorance

Never forever the one and only collective

Love is the sacred soul spread thin among us

Eternal like a legal contract wrought from toilet tissue

The Lord our savior

Our Creator

Our creation

Our damnation

Free will gifted as a catch twenty two

Excuses for abandonment

Blood and flesh is wine and bread

Artificial constructs created to appease our wants

Needs augmented to suit our tastes

A need for answers embodied by our minds

To fill our forms and childlike search

For guidance from the wise infallible parents

We left behind to become who we are

He who burns cities, floods worlds

And requires the blood of children

This thing that we call Father

This king of men who died for our sins

Yet still we suffer and always sin

We hate like we love

With a passion burning from unnatural fires

Yet never do we stop to think

To think is to find thoughts that we fear

And fear is to realise we are but beasts

Beasts in the dressings of a civilised society

Under a civilised God pissing enlightenment

Like the Bible cursed rich who piss money to the poor

God’s chosen children orphaned

As their father is dragged drunk to the insane asylum

Babbling at the walls

Screaming for a mother never had

Lost in a sea of faith that none can know

Because who could know the unknown

The flows of life and death

That bind and separate us in chains of fate

Chains that we as humans make

To live, to die, to procreate

Beneath the eyes of Heaven

The eyes so misted by the time

Between each blink eternity

How could we comprehend it all

The vastness of the universe

And how could the universe possibly feel

Comprehension of an ant in space

An ant, a man, a race

A myth to our own imagination

An idea blowing in the wind 

A cry to God and Allah and Buddha

And to Thor and Superman and Santa

And the ghosts who lurk in the peripheral vision

The visions of madness and glory and destiny

The ravings of the lost souls

Desperate for a hand to hold.

The Hymn of Humanity

I walked down the streets and the only thing natural I see is the sky.

Stone walls surround me, tarmac ground supports me 

and fake people are everywhere I go.

Am I fake too? I never knew.

What is fake and what is true?

My eyes look up and I spy a cloud, or is it just toxic smoke?

I don’t know. Do I even care? Does anyone?

Is that why God no longer guides us, blocked from us by our own poison fumes?

Is that the deal we made, equivalent exchange?

The world for our comfort is so obviously fair?

I cast my eyes down to avoid more philosophical thought

And try to spy ground between the carpet of waste.

I despise all this scum. What have humans become?

Just when will it end?

A drop hits my hand and my head becomes raised

Another and another and soon the clouds pour.

So fast does it come that it obscures my view

Covers the buildings and cleanses the floor.

Even the heavens cries for the Earth’s pain.

Rain keep a coming and wash the world clean

Because no matter how hard we try it is too late for us

Rewrite the wrong that became our undoing 

And sing us a song for the start of our ruin.


“Because it is your job.”
“But I do not feel like smiling.”
“Nobody does. Act. Put on a mask and smile.”
          “Because that is how you form social interaction.”
          “We form bonds through lies? Wrap ourselves in deception to deceive the deceiver?”
          “What about reality? The truth?”
          “Truth is what the masses believe. If everyone is fake it becomes reality.”
                    “Because you are having your photo taken.”
                    “So I must grin like a fool?”
                    “It is a moment locked in time forever. You must look happy.”
                    “Like a wax model? Constructed by others? Locked in falseness forever?”
                    “Wax and photographs last while flesh rots to dirt.”
                    “I surrender to opinion.”
                              So I must smile. Wear the face that is kept in a jar by the door.
                              Coat up in my imitation leather jacket and synthetic shirt,
                              Walk among the dyed hair, bottled tan and altered bodies.
                              Eat the processed meat and drink the juice untouched by fruit,
                              See the reality shows that could be from another universe.
                              I question life and life questions me. I question myself.
                              You can do anything you want in life if you try.
                              That is what they say as you are forced through school,
                              Forced into a job that you hate. Forced to grow old and die.
                              I use to watch the wildlife from my window as a child.
                              Rabbits ran through hills, frogs swam through ponds and I smiled.
                              Then the bulldozers came. Nature was replaced with housing
                              And left me stranded in a sea of humanity.
                    “Because you are alive.”
                    “A smile is just muscles that are used to express emotion.”
                    “Do you not feel happy?”
                    “I am happy. There is no need to express it every second though.”
                    “That is what is expected of you.”
                    “I do not understand.”
                    “Good. We are making progress.”
          “Because the world is watching.”
          “Watching what?”
          “You, me, and everything. Nothing.
          “But I am unimportant.”
          “That is why you have no right to frown.”
“Because I have told you to.”
“I am my own man. I will be passive because I am free.”
“You will smile because you are a puppet of society.”

Ode to Education

I realise why we students drink


Lest we remember all that

Is shovelled uselessly into our brain

Idiocy in academia’s robes

Oh, why but we the tortured souls

Who listen to minutia incarnate

Pretentious intentions


Intervention for the love of Dog

Drink to dull the ache

The ache that bullshit must create

To me the curtains are forever blue

The interpretation as clear as the vodka in this glass

Buccaneer Jones and The Fires of Peace – Chapter 1.

A cannonball crashed through the wall of Buccaneer Jones’ tiny cabin. He yelped and fell out of his bunk, then frantically scurried underneath it. He stared through the hole in the wall at the raging ocean outside, and the pirate ship that was rapidly approaching.

There was a thunderous noise from above as The Singing Seal returned fire with its own cannons. Buccaneer grabbed a padded hat from a hook and rammed it onto his head, the thick material covering his ears to muffle the sounds. He picked up a dog-eared old botanical encyclopedia then shuffled back beneath his bunk and tried his hardest to ignore the battle around him, even as sea water sloshed into his cabin from the hole and the smell of gunpowder swirled around him. 

The two ships closed the distance until men and women could swing from one to another with cutlasses gripped between their teeth. Now shouts and laughter filled the air, punctuated with pistol shots and the clang of swords.

Buccaneer sighed and started to hum loudly. Despite his name, Buccaneer didn’t like fighting. In fact, he hated it, just like he hated his name. To his friends he was just Bucc. Not that he had many. Bucc was considered odd by most people. He didn’t like violence, couldn’t stand loud noises, and he willingly washed at least once a week. How were you supposed to treat someone who didn’t like to fight, pillage, and drink?  Continue reading

Thorns of the Shadow: The Taste of Lead and Lightning – Chapter 1. (Book 2)

(Book two of Thorns of the Shadow. Contains spoilers of book one.)

Heat rolled in shimmering waves across every surface. The sun hung proudly in a cloudless sky above. It was the kind of day that seemed to drag on and seep the energy from the world. 

On a suburban street, in a house like every other upon it, a young woman sat slouched across a sofa where she had been for the past few hours without moving. She was called Catherine Redthorn, but preferred to go by KT. Her black hair ended half way down her back and she had an athletic build that was currently clad in black jeans and a simple white vest. A few scars marked her arms but many more lay hidden in a chaotic pattern across her torso.

On the other end of the sofa was the sprawled out shape of her twin brother, Mordekai,  known better as Kai. He was taller and broader than his sister but shared her green eyes and love of dark clothing. He too bore scars, as did their mother and father, but nothing near to the level that punctuated KT’s skin. Continue reading