Three Hoodies Save the World

Constant moaning and whinging about everything

Archive for the month “April, 2016”

No more dams

I’m going off scenery, so here’s something i did a few years ago when I was first learning to paint and now now touched up a little.


It was one of my first paintings and there’s no cloning – mainly because I’d never heard of the cloning tool; and just to maintain continuity, my alleged daughter assures me that it’s complete rubbish, especially my bananas of which I was especially proud.
So, surrounded by such heart-warming assurances I’ve begun the final and fourth episode of my monster trilogy.
Poor old New York. I loved that place, but as I’ve already destroyed most of England it seemed like a natural progression.
Of course the ship hasn’t arrived yet so if you’d like New York spared, let me know where you want my super evolved monsters to ravage.


Let Me Call You Sweet Tart

Imagine Classic Literary Characters living in the Modern World. Read Jane Eyre Gets Real, a Novel by Annabelle Troy, available on Amazon!

Recently David Copperfield, one of Charles Dicken’s most famous characters, was in the village of Bakewell, UK. Dickens once stayed in Bakewell, at the Rutland Arms, whilst writing his long-forgotten short story called “The Warilows of Wellland”; this same hotel also hosted Jane Austen, Lord Byron, and Coleridge–though never, of course, at the same time. David Copperfield just stopped by for the Bakewell Tart.

This pastry, available in cardboard boxes throughout English supermarkets, is virtually unknown in the States. A pity, because the freshly made version is scrumptious. It is concocted from a shortcrust pastry shell embellished with layers of jam, frangipane, and almond flakes.  Word of the day: frangipane–a filling layered with almonds. The decadent tart can be further enhanced with a thick crust of white fondant icing and a glazed cherry on top; this is known as the Iced Cherry Bakewell. Legend has it that the tart is…

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Back When I Was Young

Suddenly they all died. The end.

Suffocating in
A tiny town is not for
Me. I want big skies,

Wide open spaces,
Room to grow, to breathe, to be;
Room to run, wild and

Free. Trapped in small-town
Hell is not where I thought I’d
Be back when I was

Young and carefree, when
I knew all there was to know,
When the world was mine…

If you liked today’s poem, there’s more where it came from! Check out Tuesday Daydreams and A Song for All Seasons for more of my poetic ramblings. Happy April!

(c) 2016. All rights reserved.

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Thirteen Guests

Amaranthine by Joleene Naylor

13 GUESTS 250A FREE* collection of thirteen short stories meant to take place during the events of Masque of the Vampire.

Every fifty years, Andrei throws an expensive house party for the crème de la crème of the vampire world. With attendance down and news of dangerous events in the world, Andrei invites some new faces and requests security, pulling Jorick and Katelina into a swirl of intrigue and mysterious vampires.

But, there’s only so much time in the novel, and only so much Katelina can see. Discover the things she didn’t and enjoy thirteen stories, told through the eyes of the guests themselves. Dive into their histories, share their pain, their joy, and their hopes in the days leading up to the party’s first official day.

Get yours at:

Smashwords | Barnes and Noble | Apple iBooks | Kobo | Amazon | Paperback

And read:

William – As William gets…

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Interview with Jorick: Part 1

Amaranthine by Joleene Naylor

amaranthine interviews

Hello! And welcome to the weekend Amaranthine interviews where YOU ask the questions!

In honor of the new book, I’m going to give everyone else some time off and conduct these interviews myself. See what a good author I am?

02-jorickJo: Today we have Jorick on the chopping block – I mean in the hot seat. We have a LOT of questions for him, so I’m going to have to break this up into two interviews. What follows is part one, and is still long, so I will try to keep his answers brief. Truthfully, that shouldn’t be hard considering how uncooperative he is.

Jorick: I’d hardly call myself uncooperative. They just usually ask…uncomfortable questions.

Jo: They ask good questions. Anyway, let’s get to it. Matthew asks: Where and what year were you born in?

J: That’s easy enough. I was born in 1533 in the Netherlands.

Jo: Okay.  Steve…

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Your dam’s rubbish

Always full of friendly and constructive advice, my daughter looked over my shoulder and wiped the smile from my face.


    ‘That’s the worst dam I’ve ever seen. And your water’s defying gravity.”
    I overcame the notion of slapping her senseless and reminding her that she’d never seen a dam in her entire short and wouldn’t know gravity if she walked into it, but as she’s just bought one of my books I let it go and eradicated the dam for a dolphin, her fave animal after her beloved nags.
    I don’t know how many writers out there have tried to get their so-called family to read any of their work but for me it’s been impossible upto now. And she’ll probably never read it anyway.
    ‘Daddy’s little hobby‘ is how they laughingly refer to my writing and latterly daubing, and makes it sound as if I’m  doing something both immoral and illegal in my writing room. And no matter that I’ve been struggling with it for over twenty five years (long before the little brat was born) I still find it impossible to induce them to read my stuff.
   “Just tell me if it’s any good, and then I’ll change it if you think it’s bad”, I tried a few times to a conspiratorial sneer between them. But even that didn’t work. Luckily I’ve found some good people, who with a reciprocal arrangement, read my stuff and tell me just how awful it is before I publish.
“And your rocks are totally awful,” giggled my spawn half an hour later, “and I wouldn’t set foot on that sand; it looks terrible,” as she prepared to go off and do whatever it is young people do at night. I can’t remember; it feels as if I’ve been stuck in this room writing rubbish and painting awful dams for decades.

Eastern Haze

Suddenly they all died. The end.

There’s a haze in the
East. A pastel filter has
Settled over field

And stream, sky and stone.
The birds have ceased their trilling,
The sun has found its

Rest. For a moment,
All is still; the eastern haze
Recalls another

Time, a simpler time,
Like looking at a fav’rite
Faded photograph.

If you liked today’s poem, there’s more where it came from! Check out Tuesday Daydreams and A Song for All Seasons for more of my poetic ramblings. Happy April!

(c) 2016. All rights reserved.

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a woke up wuith a really strange idea.

I often wake in the middle of the night with a lot of strange ideas but I won’t relate them on this blog.
    The particular notion that struck me as odd was: can a man write a good love story? I’ve never actually read one – ever. But there’s nothing to stop me trying. I could always take up a pen name. I rather like Gladys. It’s one of the few genres I haven’t tried, although in my novel The Book Of Pain there is a love story of sorts. That’s if you can count the relationship between a four hundred year old man and a twenty something woman as love – especially as he’s considering casting her into hell to save his own soul.
    I (mentally) wrestled with the idea of heaving bosoms and men coming to terms with their feminine side and finally admitting what we already know; ie that women are fully in control with their identity while men almost always act in accordance to how they perceive as what the world is expecting of them. I went on with this for almost twenty minutes before quickly casting it aside and returning to the fourth horror novel in my trilogy.  Short lived identity crises over; I’m going back to blood and guts.


  Here’s something I knocked up using not one but three painting packages. The inclination is beginning to wear a little thin and I see some writing coming on. I can’t wait to try out my new writing package. The one like Word but infinitely better and written especially for the tablet. At just under £5 it was a bargain and I can’t wait to try it out.

NaPoWriMo: Parachute

Dying Breath

Suddenly they all died. The end.

Winter’s dying breath
Howls o’er the prairie, a
Protest ‘gainst its death.

Not yet ready to
Release its grip on the world,
Winter rages on.

If you liked this poem, there’s more where it came from! Check out Tuesday Daydreams and A Song for All Seasons for more of my poetic ramblings. Happy April!

(c) 2016. All rights reserved.

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