#IndiePressDay Some great short story collections by indie presses I have discovered via social media inc. Fauna by @davidhartley.bsky.social The Naming of Moths by @theliterarypig.bsky.social (@flyonthewallpress.bsky.social) The Museum of Shadows and Reflections by @clairedean.bsky.social

My father and brother reflect on the philosophy of creativity…

Philosophy, creativity and Rickerly: uneasywords.com/2025/04/24/reasoning

I’ve created a little zine about being a Writer-in-Residence in an old train station in Sweden. It’s called ‘Sprites of Svenshögen’ and you can pay what you like to buy it. All proceeds go to Medicines Sans Frontieres. Just paypal me; paypal.me/DavidHartley

This response to a Scandinavian residency is mischievous in its charm. A zesty zine. Available at the moment only from @davidhartley.bsky.social

Revealing the event poster for @johnironmonger.bsky.social 's launch at @serenitybookshop.bsky.social Stockport! Hosting this conversation on climate change, politics and bears will be our very own animal expert and writer @davidhartley.bsky.social www.ticketsource.co.uk/whats-on/sto... #books📚💙

A reasonable question with no known answer. But I can’t help but imagine an Ent writing this, asking on behalf of the trees. But it equally applies to lone cyclists on little bridges, and people lurking with cameras

Found a pristine child’s board game in the woods on New Years Day, complete with the dice, the marble and all the pieces for the run. This tree seemed to be offering it. I sensed a Jumanji-style curse. A little further along: an abandoned Amazon delivery bag. The curious detritus of Xmas.

I’m entranced by signage. Especially those that tell us not to do things, which seems to be 99% of them. Do we absorb all this condemnation subliminally? Does it shunt us into submission? Make us suspicious of everyone and everything? Quietly, carefully, with a fingertip, I touched the pipe.

Gates upon fence upon mesh upon doors upon shutters. No entry, do not park, begone, banished, none shall pass. Sir, you shall be iced. Why do we expend so much energy and material shouting and stopping and preventing? It does us such a disservice.

I got a nice surprise today. The story I wrote for a Comma Press course has been published in the anthology Obscura: New Uncanny Tales, edited by @davidhartley.bsky.social. You can get it on Kindle now for only 99p! amazon.co.uk/Obscura-Unca...

A solitary goose somehow separated from the flock. The cranes of Liverpool look on, like eldritch gods approaching to claim their latest soul. Ferrymen to cross the Mersey

Passed through a wonderfully liminal space last night. The glowing digits of the cinema lobby. Thrill and disappointment promised behind each door. The number 12 flipped somehow, like a magic lantern projection. It was late. I had the whole of screen 11 to myself for 3hrs26mins. Blissful.

Currently writing and thinking about this man and this building. The former is an Estonian sound poet and keen wanderer. The latter was built by the Soviets in the edgelands of Tartu and never used. The yellow sign told us not to go in, but we did.

A distressed bridge hidden in the depths of the suburbs, only used by those who know it is there. The graffiti is almost exclusively Smiths lyrics. The ground tells us that meat is murder. But the bridge feels furtive, secretive. Probably best just to enjoy the funny ones, then hurry on through.

My sister’s feet. We’re inside an inflated disco cube placed upon a lawn at her care home. Lights, lasers, a soundsystem, a smoke machine. She’s about to start dancing, her favourite activity. The theme is 80s. The colours are brash and bold, like her. The song is Atomic by Blondie.

A fairly unremarkable picture of woodland. But this (we think) is the location of England’s only Viking burial ground. A whole community of Danes buried beneath gentle mounds, many not yet excavated. It is now a makeshift rifle range. Pallets riddled with bullet holes. We didn’t hang around.

My music orientated brother took me to a moody bar in the backwash of Salford. In there, this serious woman making serious noise. She was joined halfway through by a drummer for more noise. Walked home in the rain feeling wholeheartedly blasted. A strong evening all round. Loraine James.

In the bird hide. Where we hide from birds and, perhaps, where birds hide from us, or from other birds. Openings frame the sky, the water, the ground, and the house where the seeds live. Let us gather, with our spyglasses, and wait. Let us identify species as the beaked ones set to their feast.

I’d been teaching a course which featured @lmcknighthardy.bsky.social’s wonderful essay ‘Negative Spaces & Ambiguity’ from Dead Ink’s Writing the Uncanny. Then I took a stroll along my local canal. Here on this post, this sticker. Beyond it, shipping containers holding who-knows-what, or nothing.

This Jackdaw sits on my second screen with her mossy tombstone in the background. If I angle myself correctly, and squint while I work, I can pretend she’s sitting on my shoulder offering gothic advice and uncanny pointers. Whatever helps get words on the page, eh?

Backache, neck-ache, stiffness, discomfort. Wrestling with pillows and cushions to try and out-kink the knot. In need of ancient tinctures, most likely. Or just to stop a-hunching so much over laptops and the wilds of Hyrule. Out-Kink the Knot is a great title for a band and/or erotic novel.

If you’re in need of a image for promoting anything Halloween related, feel free to use this. I took the picture, but you don’t need to credit me. How could I possibly possess this gathering of light and atoms. But if you use it for nefarious purposes, dammit I’ll hex you. I’ll hex you so hard.

Four snail shells on a crosshatched chopping board in a museum kitchen of a historic house. Unclear if that means snails were eaten here, or if they’re interlopers. The famous occupant was known for writing diaries in code. Perhaps this is a clue. A mollusca cipher. A snail trail to treasure.

Two rooms from extreme angles. The first is a holiday room in Glossop. For two years in the 1930s my paternal grandfather trained here to be a priest, before moving to France and deciding not to be a priest. The second is my study, but from an angle designed to make the familiar feel uncanny.

Barton Bridge, in Trafford, 5 mins from where I live. From the apex of this flyover you can see: a rugby stadium, a small airport, a sewage treatment plant, life sized models of dinosaurs, a golf driving range, a ski slope, and the Trafford Centre. Looking at the bridge, you only see the bridge.

A little story from me on Every Day Fiction: everydayfiction.com/simon-wants-...

A long walkway across a vivid bog somewhere in the Estonian countryside. You see all the blooming acid colours, the mirror-like waters, but then you spot the broken handrail halfway along. What a hairy moment that must have been as someone leaned to one side to let another person pass.

A vision of upward things at a particular spot in a particular city. There’s also a bird, a gull, making its choice and choosing retail. It is said that towers are phallic, worshipping a sun goddess. But here they look desperate, seeking for a way through the clouds.

My favourite recent photo of my other half. She’s examining the corpse of a pipistrelle bat in the manor house of a medieval knight. The shine of her hair, the pattern of her trousers like tapestry. The angelic glow from the window. Quietude. Life and death, but peacefully.

A social media reset offers a chance for reflection. My Twitter was dying long before Musk. Half-hearted self promo, doomscrolling, & unhealthy comparisons to others. Here could be more esoteric. More measured. More liminal. Careful steps so far. Curious imagery, passing thoughts. Low engagement.

I think, sometimes, about this man. He was noting down details on every plant in this NT garden. I took his picture as he emerged from this neat hedgerow. I liked his pose, like some cowboy gardener. I showed him the pic and he said thank you. That was my only interaction. I liked him a lot.