Sunday, 6 November 2016



On the 26th of October, my 6 foot Christmas tree was joyously decorated with baubles and erected in the window of my living room...much to the amazement of passers-by whose gaping maws mouthed incredulity more, I suspect, than they would have had I suctioned my naked form in a Garfield stance to that very pane. 

Now then, there were several reasons for my doing this and each of those reasons comprises entirely of the words " because I f*****g can!"

As for my being told by some "it's too early" well, maybe it could be deemed so had I erected it in THEIR living room...but I didn't...did I? No!

So, I tell you about YOU don't tell me when it's the right time to put my tree up and I won't tell all of you pyrotechnical premature ejaculates to stick your fireworks in an orifice of my choosing when you're frightening the shite out of my dog weeks before bonfire night, which is bad enough in itself!



Thank you for tuning into Lynn's Rant...

Ps: No animals were harmed during the erecting of my Christmas tree!

Pps: Merry Christmas!!

©  Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Saturday, 5 November 2016

Gargoylian Update...

So then, life and its ever evolving madness has overwhelmed my senses recently and thus my presence, physically, mentally, emotionally, realistically, virtually....and in all other aspects of sentience has been rather jaded and spasmodic, to say the least.

No need to bore you with the details of my fugue state, suffice to say that I am dealing with stuff in my own peculiar way and taking note of each diverse nuance of its mitherage for future writings of the crazy and the creepy!

Speaking of 'future writings'...the third book in my poetry series is to be launched later this year, December 2017...*air punches*...I'll let you know more about that, including launch venue etc...nearer the time.

As for now, well, currently I am poised to resume work on my debut novel (as yet untitled and very much a work in progress) the content of which will incorporate a fusion of mystery, macabre, malevolence, mirth and any other M words I find to be of appropriate usage.

Now, whilst I don't want to give too much away regarding storyline, at this point, what I will reveal is the setting for my eerie tale...

This is a place where my mother would take me for picnics when I was a little girl and, subsequently, where I would take my own children for similar moments of quietude and calm accompanied by a modest assortment of sandwiches and a hamper packed with thoughtful contemplation for the respected companions in our midst.

It is a place where I would once run to, literally, for solace, day or night, when the vicious world of the living weighed heavily upon me. 

It is a place where I continue to walk each day and most evenings, finding the company of the residents therein both comforting and, indeed, inspiring.

And it is a place where I myself will reside one day and, consequently, embark upon my journey to the Otherside guided, no doubt, by the very souls whose ethereal state has, I suspect, on many occasion lifted my spirits higher than their own!

No! This is not to be a tale of Tesco Extra and its walking dread!

This is a tale of grave and graveyard...particularly my graveyard, as I prefer to think of it, although the local council would be quick to challenge such thoughts.

Set in the present a fleeting glimpse at one of the main characters would draw your attention towards the degraded shape of Nathaniel Aloysuis Fletcher (1582-1648) whose zeal as a Witchfinder is as rampant in death as it was in life.

In their, as yet, raw state a couple of excerpts from the opening chapter of my book read thusly... 

"Nathaniel Aloysuis Fletcher peered over the crumbling, graveyard wall through sharp, narrowed eyes. The events unfolding before his scrutinous gaze were a source of much interest to him as he witnessed the solemn interment of yet another sinner.

Death had done nothing to alter Nathaniel’s sour nature nor dull his devious manner. Indeed, he remained to be the bitter, disgruntled man he had been in life, fiercely suspicious of everyone and everything, particularly that which lay beyond the walled confines of what he considered to be his exclusive property, the Chantry..............

..............Yes, Nathaniel’s demise in 1648 in his 66th year, had not quashed his passion for Witch-hunting,  if anything Nathaniel believed his present state was testament to God's will that he remain Witchfinder and continue with his noble quest to defeat the Devil and his minions, ultimately purging the wicked influences which sought to possess mankind".

And that's as much of the narrative I'm sharing at the moment, however, I will share with you a few photographs, taken a day or so ago whilst on my walk, of the very graveyard from where Nathanial's prying eyes are boring into the souls of the sinfully deceased.

As for now, what more is there to say but...."Abandon hope, all ye who enter here" cue menacing laughter....

  ©  Copyright Lynn Gerrard