Dying slowly, by Sunita Jugran.


Dying slowly

A daughter, a sister, a mother, a wife
This is me and this is my life.
Honour of families, on my shoulders rest
I can never falter, I have to be the best.

My sleep is not mine, my days can not be
No dreams for my heart, no dreams I can see
You own my body, you own my heart
Who knows my soul is some other soul’s part

I can not have a soul, I am but just a woman
I do not amount to anything, a little less a human.
I live for you, I laugh for you, I cry and I die
If only you will feel me once, if only you will try

You hug me as and when you like, and crush me as you wish
You spit on me when you feel like and when you wish, you kiss
I dance around the way you want, I serve you with my heart
you play with me, you break me up, you tear me all apart.

I wish I were a little bug and could hide in a flower’s core
I wish I could just stop to be, and wish not to see more.
You, who own, and you, who love, both of you can rejoice
I cut my tongue, now no words come, you will hear no voice

What did I wish, what did I dream, a kingdom? Heaven? Sky?
Just a wish to live a little dream, just a hope to heave a sigh
But you own my lungs, you own my breath, my tears and my smiles
I drag my life, I have to live, long years and longer miles.

Copyright Sunita Jugran

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Posted by on July 13, 2014 in Author/Writer, Raconteur


The WORTH of VALUE, by Danny Kemp.


My worth is measured by what I drive, what I wear, what I own.
I am superior by virtue of the wealth I possess.

My value is never discussed if I look secondary to you.
Intellect counts for nothing. It makes everything a mess.

The cost of worth can be extreme.
The price of value is incalculable!


© 2014, Danny Kemp. All rights reserved.




Posted by on July 13, 2014 in Author/Writer, Raconteur


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The Haunted Castle….Part Five….THE END!



The Haunted Castle….Part Five….THE END!

Part One 

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

My dearest, troubled Spot, Aunt Alice here.

Did you fall from the battlements and hit your head?

Although I have been away for quite sometime I have never abandoned you, Spot, nor have my staff. Although their number has recently been depleted by two suicides. I’m not completely sure if you and those two tragic events are connected. Anyway, they have read your messages avidly, and as a consequence I’m aware of your predicament. 

My nervous condition is returning at a fast pace, I feel the need of sherry; urgently! I want to shout, I want to scream. If I had more hair than I do, then no doubt I would be pulling it out by the fistful now through frustration. It is not good for women of a certain age to feel frustrated Spot, believe me.

I knew that you were silly, but always hoped you would overcome that adolescent stupidity. Yes, Spot, I called you STUPID.

To regain my own sanity, and wellbeing, I must assist my dear Spot….. Heaven help us if I don’t!


Spot, the problems are threefold as I see it, and all to do with females. Why did you not join a monastery as you once threatened to do?

Never mind, let’s set about solving your dilemmas.

1) BRENDA. She is obviously unhappy away from penguins, Greenland and her homeland of Wales. You have the solution to this, and 2) MYRTLE. Send them back to watch Welsh grannies lifting their skirts in that pub The Castle Harlech!

How you say? Sit back and read nineteenth century wisdom, Spot.

As I understand things, that Dickie Branson, the pickle jar genie, has yet to grant your third wish. Summon him by rubbing that thing I trust you still keep in your pocket.

Do it surreptitiously, Spot, not in the open please! 

When he appears, instruct him to resurrect Brenda in skeletal condition of course. Leave the skeleton somewhere fairly hidden but easily found by Little Willie, an interesting character I must admit. You could not have thought the name up. The truth is often more fanciful than fiction I find. 

He will then inform Myrtle with whom he seems to have a relationship and she, in turn, will inform the Insurance Company by presenting Brenda’s remains. We both must assume here that their premises are situated in the Principality of Wales, a reasonable assumption I think. 

By this action Brenda should be happy, if happiness exists in the spirit world, and both she and her daughter will leave. You will be on your own, Spot. That brings us nicely to your third problem.

3) Tracey. She is toying with you, Spot, feeling a mite coltish in accepting your proposal. After all, can anyone prefer Outer Mongolia to your arms in the ghost free Castle Barnard? 

I suggest the answer is no, Spot!

In my practised opinion, a touch of skittish behaviour is normal for a girl of her age being wooed by someone younger. But you are WEALTHY. Don’t forget your fortune. Most wavering hearts can be won by money, my dear boy!

Send her a message saying that as your wedding gift, you have deposited £10 million in a bank account under her name! That should catch, and focus her attention. I must add here, that under no circumstances should you think that my changed advice is in any way selfish. I REALLY do enjoy your missives. The fact that when married, you will no longer have a need for such communications, has not swayed my stance at all. I simply want your often self-doubt to disappear. Assert your authority Spot, be it on the washing line, in the kitchen or in the bedroom. Be assertive, Spot. I’m sure that twenty-first century Great Britain needs assertiveness as much as it does in my year; 1872.

I have a few final words of warning my dear Spot, before I depart and somehow salvage my composure.

The full £10,000,000 can ONLY be released after a period of married bliss has past. I would suggest that you trickle it down, as it were. A small amount first, say £50,000 after one year. The second year, increase it if you want. I am not suggesting that Tracey will not be sincere in her acceptance, but I do remember her and a ‘miscalculation of funds’ when you received that first reward for reporting Brenda and the Welsh grannies! 

Be prudent Spot, but keep staying away from prunes. We don’t want a reoccurrence of that camping incident on your wedding night!


Aunt Alice, you are so wise.

How I missed you and your wisdom. As you so rightly say, Spot is in a bit of a pickle, if you pardon the pun.

I will summon Dickie and follow your advice. Then set about Tracey. Perhaps those are the wrong words, but soon I will have my hands on her…..Yum Yummy!



Sometime later, after jumping up and down, turning around a few times in joy and rubbing a certain something in his pocket…..It was an Opal, if you’re wondering! Some people have dirty minds.

My dearest beloved Tracey.

All has been resolved. The ghostly spirit of Brenda has gone, as has her daughter Myrtle. Little Willie did not travel to Wales as I first thought he would. He said that he had plenty to do here, and preferred to stay. I can explain all of that later, if you want. Castle Barnard is a picture of tranquillity with sweet-smelling air in abundance. I enclose a legal document detailing the financial arrangements I have made for your fiscal security after our marriage. 

The bans have been read in Saint Michael’s And All Angels, our soon to be wedding venue, and everything has been organised. All you have to do is pick a dress. I doubt if there are many in Outer Mongolia but do not worry. I have sent Siren FM your resignation letter, along with the air tickets for your return journey to Heathrow. They assure me that they will gladly forward them. The Prime Minister and the Queen are on my invited guest list, so you can apologies to them personally for taking on other duties, than spying for GB.

Oh, before I forget. Please send a list of guests you wish to invite, money is no problem!

Loads of LOVE, Spot.

You are all invited to the marriage ceremony of Tracey and Spot.

The date to be announced whenever Tracey arrives at Heathrow and Little Willie meets her there as my trusted representative. I hope she’s pleased.



Posted by on July 12, 2014 in Author/Writer, Raconteur


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Projectile Malfunction, by Danny Kemp.


I wrote this today whilst at work, and read it aloud to a passenger in the cab who was asking me about my writing. I wondered what kind of reaction I might get!
She laughed her head off, then asked me for a signed copy of The Desolate Garden.

Freddy suffered badly from projectile malfunction
No matter what method he used his rocket would not work.
He tried this and he tried that without satisfaction,
Always ending up feeling like a jerk!

© 2014, Danny Kemp. All rights reserved.


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Posted by on July 10, 2014 in Author/Writer, Raconteur


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The Haunted Castle. Part Four.


The Haunted Castle. Part Four.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Myrtle’s Diary.

I managed to get hold of Little Willie on several occasions, and turned up gold. A shattered piece of prototype space rocket, with not only the Virgin insignia on it, but blood that just must be mum’s. It is at a private forensic laboratory now along with her feet that I found at the crash site, and some of mum’s hair from home. It was checked for DNA and matched. Sadly though it will not be enough!


The insurance company will not accept that as ‘definitive proof,’ their words not mine, of Brenda’s death. I need another plan! In fact, I need a miracle.


Meanwhile, in Castle Barnard’s kitchen sits Spot, at the iPad stolen from Danny Kemp, composing yet more stupid poetry and letters to his uncommitted sweetheart, Tracey Edges.

Dearest, darling Tracey

Oh how the sweetness of your breath, fills every recess and crevice of my nest.

I long for the night that you do succumb, to the rhythm of my desire as my love does run.

(Useless, isn’t he. It gets worse)

Fill my heart with your love. I’ll send this message tied to a dove…… 

(Feel pity for me, please. I have to copy this rubbish)

There has been a great deal going on here in the past few weeks that have disturbed me, Tracey. Little Willie has constructed a direct passage from the cemetery into the basement, with the help of that roofing inspector chappie, and some objects have been removed! I asked them what they were doing, but was only told that odd pieces of metal may have fallen from the building, becoming lodged in the dungeons at sometime. Somewhat queer, don’t you think.

On reflection that could be the cause of the rattling, chain like, noises I hear. I do sincerely hope that is true, as I would hate it if you were woken needlessly, after we marry, from the blissful sleep you no doubt will find.

The smell of rotting leeks has returned, to be joined by the sound of wailing and hammering type noises. I am baffled by it all. If I had never rubbed that jar of Branson pickles of yours and met Dickie, the genie, then I would never believe in spirits and ghosts. 

I’m of the opinion that there is indeed a ghost in this there Castle!



Myrtle’s Diary.

Little Willie has risen to the occasion. I figured that if mum was able to communicate with me, telling of the events directly before her death, then I could present that to the insurance company. I left a note to that effect, along with her favourite leeks, whilst Little Willie left a hammer and chisel. Mum must now chisel her message into stone, which I will take a photo of, presenting it as proof.


Dearest Tracey,

I have found the ghost of…..Brenda! She crashed aboard a Virgin moon rocket a few days before I bought Castle Barnard…. What a coincidence, eh! 

The hammering noise was atrocious last night, so I went to investigate. As I turned a corner, down in the dungeons, I saw a hammer hitting a chisel and writing something in one of the pillars. I shouted out and approach slowly, but as I did so both the hammer and chisel fell to the floor. The place then filled with a freezing mist that swirled around, for a second or two, then disappeared through me!

I went blue with cold. I was completely numb, but luckily the sensation soon passed and I was able to move. I read the message, Tracey. Please be seated before you read on. You will be amazed at the revelation that I found! This was the carved message:

Myrtle, when I escaped from that military prison I made it as far as the Virgin rocket site, about five miles away. There was no plan. My only thoughts were of you, and the Queen’s throne of Wales. I was trying to work out how to fly their moon shuttle when the manacles, they had around my feet and hands, tangled with an outside rocket booster. The balance was wrong, and I had no control. I crashed here minutes after takeoff. If it’s any consolation I felt nothing, only an insatiable appetite. Thank you for the leeks and I’m sorry that you have lost your dad as well as me, your mother. Good luck with the insurance money, but I doubt they will believe all this. 


In ghostly form; Queen Of The Welsh.


Tracey, Tracey,

The roofing man is not a man but Myrtle in disguise. What can I do? Spot urgently needs HELP.



Will the insurance company be reasonable

And common sense see? 

Will Tracey advise Spot,

Or will she flee? 

Will the marriage go on as planned,

Or will there never be those wedding bands? 

Will Myrtle get the money, 

Or will it slip through her hands?

More soon in Part Five!

© 2014, Danny Kemp. All rights reserved.





Posted by on July 7, 2014 in Author/Writer, Raconteur


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If Fred was a Freya and Helen a Harry,

Who would be the best man if they were to marry?

Would all sort itself out on the wedding night,

Or would the whole thing descend into an out-and-out fight?

It’s probably good for some this diverse life,

But I’m perfectly content to have a woman as my wife.

© 2014, Danny Kemp. All rights reserved.

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Posted by on July 6, 2014 in Author/Writer, Raconteur


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A Washer, A Washer. My Kingdom For A Washer!


Tongue-in-cheek not to be taken seriously, but then again!

My proposal of declaring independence for the south-east of England has been put on hold for the sake of a washer! Yes, I kid you not. A simple tap washer.

Several months ago it was discovered that the picturesque North Downs, an area stretching through Kent into Sussex, held billions of barrels of oil and huge deposits of gas. Fracking was the solution to its excavation and the government duly issued licenses for the job to be started. 

As I live in Kent, and having suffered from the construction of three major motorways as well as a high-speed rail network linking the UK to Europe, my wife and I decided that if independence was being considered in Scotland, Wales and various other wealth consuming regions, who benefit from free passage through The Garden of England (The official title of Kent) for their exports on route to Europe, this state of self-determination should be extended to us, here in the desolation…. (Good plug there. Hope it wasn’t missed)

Plans were put in force, money raised for a political campaign and assistance sought, in a military capacity, from America to aid our cry for freedom. That part was still being negotiated, and dependent on the new democratic state, called Suskent, funding a permanent land base, plus a naval complex for USA personnel. We were getting there when some tree-hugging, green person, popped up causing ripples by throwing a washer in the works!  

Apparently, said sites of deposits are close to fresh water reservoirs from which natural drinking water is drawn and piped into homes. They now fuss about the possibility of leakage of oil and the contamination of this supply!

I say if antifreeze was commonly added to some European wine without lasting harmful effects, then what damage would a little oil do to the populace? It could be a benefit. Lubrication of the liver, stomach and kidneys could save money for the National Health Service, in time.

Could this needless environmental protest be led by drug manufacturing, multinational companies worried about the budget no longer needed for suppositories? Or worse, a devious American plan of vilification of the indigenous plumbing industry, thereby monopolising all Ukrainian plumbers!

My plea is simple: Is there an Englishmen who makes a suitable washer that would guarantee the purity of underground streams?

Danny Kemp, concerned for leaks.



Posted by on July 6, 2014 in Author/Writer, Raconteur


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