Hopefully by now, as you read this, you'll be familiar with the direction from which I come at you with my anecdotal accounts. Premonition, maybe? No, just teasing - but it is the topic for my today's post, and hopefully leave you with a morsel of food for thought.
Think of it as a peek behind a curtain of mystery previously ignored.
I'm going to give three different accounts - one and two definitely fall into the 'premonition' category, whilst the third is a bit, even to my mind, borderline. Once told, I think you'll understand why I feel it's validated in the telling.
Before moving forward, here is the definition, as offered by Google, as to what 'Premonition' is deemed as being:
Back in the early days of blogging I would do a section I called 'Blog Spot', to highlight other bloggers, with an aim to share the love and hopefully drive new blog explorers their way.
Now, in 2025, I thought I'd do the same for this very talented composer of cinematic music for film, games and online media, Australian, Scott Buckley. I stumbled across this gentleman's music purely by accident - but was it? Or was it the Universe gently steering me to this beautiful event of serendipity?
Either way, I'm happy I did. For it's within the landscape of music that I tend to find a large portion of writing inspiration - it could be the catalyst for a scene, a piece of dialogue, even the formulation of a new character or interaction between characters.
The real beauty of it is, Scott Buckley has provided this wonderous music under the 'Creative Commons' copyright licence, which is a dream for fellow creatives, who wish to incorporate his music into their work - so long as appropriate credit is given to its original creator, Scott Buckley. I look forward to including more of his work for future posts.
Click HERE to be taken to Mr. Buckley's official website.
Below is a particularly beautiful piece entitled, "The Things That Keep Us Here" - Scott Buckley.
The title is slightly inaccurate, as the story I submitted is classified as a 'Micro' story — 400 words or under. If memory serves, mine clocks in at 303 words — a tadpole of a tale.
It was only after much deliberation, a fair bit of web searching, and eventually harnessing the speed of AI in the form of ChatGPT, that I opted for a site in the USA under the title of: Fracturedlit. Clicking on the site name will take you to the website.
The downside is that once submitted the wait is up to three months to hear back. Sometimes you never hear back. A clear indication of your submission having failed. On a positive, it does state that there are times when submissions receive a quicker reply when successful. Though it seems a bit of a 'don't hold your breath' kind of deal.
My only course of action now is to forget it. I liken that to being told, "Ah, forget about Christmas coming, even though it's only four weeks away!" Fat chance of that. I'll just have to see if December brings any good news.
What I am about to impart took place over the last week, maybe a few days more; at the time of writing, today's date is Saturday 18th October 2025.
There is a routine to our homelife at the close of day - I'm the last to retire to bed, and the dogs will have followed my wife upstairs, Aldo in his basket, Chica on hers. Sometimes I'll watch something on one of the streaming platforms, and usually when I start getting drowsy I'll call it a night. I might clear the dishes if any have been left, then check all doors - front and back - are locked, before turning in for the night.
Without doubt, William Gibson's 1984 book, 'Neuromancer' is a seminal piece of science fiction. It gave the embryonic essence of early cyberpunk a jolt of definition. Gibson gave it a voice, combined with texture and a rhythm, capturing the elusiveness of hacker culture, corporate machinations and oppression, suffused with artificial intelligence on a level to make today's political elite AI concerns appear laughable.
In essence, Neuromancer turned an idea that had been juggled by many into a solid, grounded literary movement.
I discovered this novel late in life, and not too long ago. I had been reading a cyberpunk series by a different author, and although the writing was pretty good (in my opinion), the plot felt too cliched, tired and predictable, as did the setting.
So a quick question to ChatGPT (a bit ironic) for cyberpunk book recommendations, and 'Neuromancer' came out on top. The following day, my copy landed in the post from Amazon.
It is said that in an urban environment most people are totally unaware that they are within several feet of a rat. But what if I suggest that most people are within mere feet of something darker - perhaps more sinister - than a rat. When darkness falls, and the deep shadows claim our gardens, something else comes exploring and investigating in the blackness?
A simple desire for a late night coffee, and an unnerving experience has left me asking that question.
LATE NIGHT COFFEE BREAK:
My first experience occurred when taking a break from the pc, the urge for coffee tugging at me. Looking to the clock it showed 2330hrs. The house was asleep, just me and the computer screen wide awake.
Heading down to the kitchen, I flip the light switch. The strip light hesitates, stammering 'bink, bink, bink', as it tries to fulfil its designated task. I move for a few seconds in a strobe-like effect as I open cupboards, grab my spoon and mug. Finally 'dink'. I have light. A glance up to my left to the wall clock above the kitchen window and sink, my eyes catch my reflection, the blackness outside mirrored back at me in the double glazing. Mug of milk in the microwave, timer set. I busy myself with washing up a few items in the sink.
Chapter eleven mocks me. I stare at it, it glares back, daring me to hit the keyboard. Quietly I control my breathing, eyes closed. Head bowed, I slowly look up. Chapter eleven sits there smugly, flipping me off, grinning.
I'm losing this one, I can tell. Turning off my pc, I concede another brutal encounter lost. Words and images swirl within my mind as I head out into the garden. The day is conducting its own tug of war between the scudding clouds and sunshine, an invigorating breeze bullies the flora of my garden.
Time to feed the birds, I guess. If the local Wood Pigeons could speak, they'd be tapping their feet in irritation, "Where the hell have you been? We've been waiting over an hour to be fed!" They regard me with their bobbing heads, eyes calculating my intentions. Knowing the sound of the shed key announces the imminent scattering of bird seed, the chicken-sized pigeons waddle down the roof ridge, eyes scrutinising my every move.
People who write within the sphere of storytelling, tend to do so in one of three ways, or methodologies. Not all writers share the same objectives or writing aims. For clarity, I will be talking specifically about fiction writers, not poets.
However, the writing of fiction has, within itself, multiple disciplines and formats, of which are listed below. Some writers have zero interest in creating a novel, but rather focus on short stories, whilst others prefer the faster, more dynamic flash fiction, and then you have those writing behemoths who aim for the epic, such as George R. R. Martin.
Sitting on an ethereal beach on some far away island in the ocean of cyberspace everything is quiet. Too quiet. This is no calm before the storm. This feels more like the calm after the storm. The air is fresh, silent, almost otherworldly. Where once the horizon was alive with traffic and visitors aplenty with tales to share, now there is only a void.
On occasion I stroll along the cool white sand and down to the water's edge, my eyes staring fixedly out to the distant horizon. Is it hope? Is it foolishness? Or is it just reflection on better times for this island of mine?
So why do I write still? A voice in the emptiness. I suppose it is my way of keeping a fire burning on the sandy shore, hoping that maybe one day a passing ship might be drawn to it, and investigate. It is, I suppose, my message in a bottle. Where it lands, if at all, I just don't know, but the thought of "What if?" is enough to keep my hopes up.
So many other islands around me have succumbed to the ocean and now lie lost beneath its depths. A few still remain, but like all things, it is only a matter of time. Until that day, I choose to walk my island, patrol its shores, and keep it in good working order. But most of all, I'll keep my beach fire burning. Just in case.
Sit on the soft white sands next to my fire, as it crackles softly and the last embers rise into the dusky sky. Let Ólafur Arnalds – ‘Particles’ feat. Nanna Bryndis Hilmarsdottir wash over you, carrying the quiet of the shore, the patience of the tide… and the thought that, perhaps, someone, somewhere, might still hear this message.
