Sushiko - Our Salad’s Over, Mother (Balsamic Ring


december 08

What’s been happening at
This month we’ve made it possible for people to update the files and cover art for articles, images, audios, videos and groups. We also added the possibility to change your profile url, eg your homepage can now be http://www.‘yourname’

Any more new features?
You can now reply to members comments in the page where you see the comment.

What changes can I expect to see over the next few months?
Improvements to your account management page are coming soon. You will be able to edit multiple items at the same time (e.g. tags, category, upload higher resolution files of existing work for the new shop) You will be able to set your commission on the work you would like to be sold on greeting cards and posters at (coming soon in the New Year!) There is also an enhanced email system and an internal subscription system to help you keep up to date on new content by your favourite members. We will have a new audio player with images very soon too, and a few other surprise treats...

Open Philosophy
Finally, next year we are looking to encourage more technology people to get involved with the tailcast project as volunteers. To that end we are going to make all of our current and future code open - we think it suits our open philosophy! Have a great Christmas :) The Cast

Klarabella - Vattendroppe


4. 5. 7. 9. 11. 13. 15. 17. 19. 21 23. 25. 27. 30. 31. 33. 35. 37.

Hyla Levy Rosie Short The Colclough Taro Grieves Isaac Shulz Ollie Fournier Huseyin James Thorne Becca Thorne

Blog Blog Blog Art Art Art Art Art Art

%*&#! Dallas-Fort Worth Airport I Want To Write Gratuitous Bloggism: Now, Where to Put The Thing? Head / Heart The Hundreds Of Years Of Beer / Blue Skies and Broken Flowers / Now Mad Rooster / Predictive Errors Candy Floss / Broken Heart Bec / Louise Pomegranate / Lemons

Community Collaborate Contest Jack Harrison ManDartin J.C. Woolley Penitent Golden Jodamme Taymaz Valley Charlotte Burne Writing Writing Writing Writing Writing Writing Writing Groups Poem 1 All The Unloved On The House Language When I Was Seventeen Acepting Things Our Town Bunny Army


Mis-BUG - The Law

blogs on tailcast
hyla levy %*&#! Dallas-Fort Worth Airport


I’ve been recruited into the blogosphere... I’ve been in Texas exactly once. Sort of. The Dallas-Fort Worth Airport. I was on my way to visit my sister and her family in San Diego. Unfortunately there are no non-stop flights between Toronto and San Diego. I have been to several other states as well using this method, however the only other one that comes to mind is LAX. I mean, let’s face it, the airport where one changes flights is not one of the warm fuzzy memories one hopes to retain from a family-visit vacation. Not that I always have warm fuzzy memories after visiting my sister… (hi Tina!) While I’m not afraid of flying, I am afraid of airports – will I get there on time, will my flight be delayed, all the people, the security to go through… Airportaphabia. Or, more acurately, changingplanesaphobia. Will my originating flight get to the airport in time to get to my gate? Will I get lost while finding said gate? Orienteering has never been my strong suit.

In my get-out-of-my-way-I-have-a-connection-tomake frenzy, I got to the gate early. Early enough that there were only a few sporadic souls waiting patiently. No worries, I thought. So I decided to mosey on over (Texas talk!) to that particular species of you-have-time-to-kill-so-letus-take-advantage-of-that-captivity-to-get-youto-spend-money-on-over-priced-souvenirs-andother-crap-you-don’t-need shop typical to airports, with my American money (converted from my under-valued Canadian dollars) in tow. My goal, however, was not to spend my expensive American dollars (success!), but to arrive at the gate fashionably late like the cool, complacent, well-seasoned traveller I’m not.

It’s time, so over to the gate I go only to see there are no people there. I had one of those horrible Twilight moments where you wonder if you’re in a parallel universe where nothing is as it should be. And then I saw it – the notification that they changed my gate to gate #something which is…. where? Worst nightmare! Panic! Dig out my stolen terminal map. As the saying goes, everything’s I’m the one on the plane pouring over and over the bigger in Texas – and the airport is no exception! airport’s terminals layout in the en route magazine. In my get-out-of-my-way-I-have-a-connection-toAnd then I tear out the picture just in case. So I make frenzy (thank goodness for moving get to Dallas-Fort Worth with about 45 minutes in sidewalks), I arrive at the newly-designated gate between flights and a good idea of where I need to just in the nick of time, casually walking those last go. To most people I’m sure that sounds like plenty few metres, just like those cool, complacent, wellof time, but not to me. As many of you know, I seasoned-traveller types. worry worry worry. And changing planes is a particularly big anxiety-inducer for me. Yeehaw! (anxiety: fear looking for a cause)

rosie short - i want to write

There are some times when I feel that I am going mad. Not in a bad way though [yes, there is a good way to go slowly and insanely mad!!]. No, in a sort of...eye opening way I suppose. It’s as though, if I don’t write something for a long time, I start to get...let’s call it an itch. So, this itch begins and it’s only small at first. A minor annoyance. And so you think to yourself, ‘It’s okay, that isn’t really bothering me too much, there’s no real hurry to scratch that little itch.’ Famous last words. That little itch gets bigger and bigger and bigger. And the bigger it gets, the more effort you have to put in to relieve it. Until one day you sit down and you say to yourself, ‘That’s it. I can’t cope with this anymore. It’s time for some serious scratching.’ Of course I’m not really talking about an itch here. Of course not. That would be slightly ridiculous and also a waste of time and effort. No, I’m talking about why I love to write.
Briana Burke - Breakfast


It isn’t to impress myself, or even others. It isn’t because I feel I have to. It isn’t because someone forces me to. No. The reason I write is because it’s the only thing that can give me total peace. You know the kind. The kind of peace that makes you feel whole inside. The kind of peace that makes the worst thing in the world simply seem to be a minor inconvenience. Yet there are so many things in life which prevent me from attaining this peace. College for one. All of the work makes me feel dizzy with worry sometimes, because not doing it results in falling further and further behind, until there is literally no hope of climbing out of the big, dark hole you’ve dug yourself. And yet...despite it all, I still write. Even though I know I should be doing something so much more useful to my education [such as assignments] and not scribbling down idle fantasies, I find myself doing it anyway. Because it’s how I am. And how I’ll always be.


the colclough gratuitous bloggism: now, where to put the thing?
It’s so awkward trying to frame and display a picture properly. my dad works for Samsung, and in recent years, he’s been sent to Korea on various missions, plus a few to other places including China and Japan. on one trip, he brought us back some presents, and the thing he got me was a painting of two sparrows sitting on a branch of an orange tree. i don’t have a clue what sort of paint the artist used, but the oranges are a fantastic, vibrant shade of orange - in fact, they’re the orangest orange oranges i’ve ever seen. since i was in the process of moving rooms (or at least expecting to be) at the time, and i didn’t have a frame handy, the picture has sat rolled up in a tube for several months. well, i moved into my new room (the ex-garage) in february - the 18th, if you must know - and since then, i’ve got round to hanging exactly one thing on the wall: the clock. i’ve still got several spaces where i could put pictures, and i’d been meaning to frame my chinese/japanese/korean (not sure which) sparrow painting, but after an extensive search of the loft, or rather, of the accessible parts of the loft (i was sure we had several spare picture frames up there), i was still frameless. well, today i was sent up there to look for something else. i didn’t find the something else, but while i was searching futilely (is that a real word?) for the something else, i came across a picture frame. it was bigger than all the ones i’d found on previous trips, and it was full of a poster of an RAF Tornado jet, which i’d used to have on my wall when i was about 7. well, although i still enjoy the odd episode of Top Gear (anyone else see clarkson’s V8-powered food blender and beef smoothie?), i’ve got past the stage where i’d want a photo of a Tornado jet on my wall, and i now prefer sparrows and oranges with a short caption - or maybe it’s the artist’s signature? - in indecipherable far-eastern writing. so, dead chuffed with my discovery, i carted my newfound treasure downstairs, took it apart, extracted the jet, and set about trying to get the sparrows under the glass instead. oh boy, was that fun. the trouble was that the painting was done on such thin, fragile paper that it made the glass panel of the frame feel like a chunk of lead by comparison. it also didn’t help that the painting wasn’t entirely flat - it had wrinkles in the paper around where the paint had been applied. it was a major challenge just to get the delicate artwork in position under the unforgivingly heavy transparent slab without doing it any permenant damage. try once, discover that it’s a few mm out of place, lift the glass, try again... but i got there in the end. the picture is slightly smaller than the frame, so it has a black border around it, which i think goes well with the darker tones of the orange-tree branch and the indecipherable caption, and should help to give the picture some definition when set against my pale-yellow walls. but having got the paper and its frame to become one, i now face another, even bigger dilemma. out of the 4 or 5 possible picture-hanging spaces in my room, two of them seem like equally good contenders to house the sparrows. i’ve tried it in both, and i don’t know where to put it. should i have it above the bookcase and printer, or should i have it next to the door? eenie, meenie, minie, mo... i dunno. my mum likes arranging pictures. i’ve lost count of how many times she’s rearranged the ones around the rest of the house. so when she gets back from taking my little sister for a piano lesson, i’ll ask her where to put it. ...and whichever spot she picks, she’ll probably tell me it’s a really, really obvious choice. she’s not an artist as such, but she does seem to have a strong sense of which picture should go where. i can’t believe i just wrote so much about a simple picture frame. that’s ridiculous. well, i did title this ‘Gratuitous Bloggism’, didn’t i...

Carolyn - Orange Fungi on a Log


art on tailcast

taro grieves



isaac shulz
Top - The Hundreds Of Years Of Beer / Bottom - Blue Skies and Broken Flowers / Right - Now


Mad Rooster


ollie fournier
Predictive Errors

Huseyin - Candy Floss


Huseyin - Broken Heart


james thorne




Becca Thorne - Pomegranate

Becca Thorne - Lemons

congratulations to ‘Tailcast the Movie’ and ‘IGNORE REWARD SECRET TEST ESCALATE DESTROY’


Tailcast the Movie Rosie Short, Ben Spees, Crazydiamond, David Barron, Steff, Daniel Spees and Cripsy. Prizes chosen: mary helena oliver day jon whitby armida ‘fog 3’ ‘bullfight’ and ‘russian beard’ ‘bird’ ‘new caledonean crow’


‘IGNORE REWARD SECRET TEST ESCALATE DESTROY’ Reekfeel and Umegoyomi. Prizes chosen: hejtejp jon whitby ‘strumpor’ ‘bird’

writing on tailcast


Jack Harrison - Poem 1
Desperately, I call out your name, To see if you’ll come back around, How can it be that it won’t work, Nothing can change reality. Secretly, I crave to see you again, That beautiful face, beautiful piercing eyes, Silky long, shining hair. Your brilliant features, no rival I find. Carefully, I carry on forward, Looking back to the memories, Remembering the time we shared, How I wish I could do it all again. Safely, I treasure everything you gave, The photos, the memories, all that reminds me, All I need to stay in touch, It’s like you never went away. Endlessly, I hold my pendant close, Partners forever we said, One for you, one for me, Together taking on the world. Sweetly, the thoughts of you, Kiss my mind, like everytime you kissed my cheek, Everytime we said hello, Everytime we said goodbye. Nervously, I look to a future without you, Fondly, I remember every step we walked, Calmly, I settle back down, Lovely, are my dreams of you.

Taymaz Valley - Aliens


ManDartin - All The Unloved
Twenty minutes ago I was asleep Protected by a million dreams I don’t remember Which slowly seep into the steam on my coffee cup As it makes war against the morning air Standing there in pajama pants and t-shirt The porch’s cold cement reaching through my socks Already I am humbled by a thousand thoughts And Dawn hasn’t even yet arrived

Hejtejp - snö på älven


Neither has it risen for the forgotten Who sleep fitfully through these freezing nights Or the souls which evil slayed For whom daylight is a newfound longing Don’t get me started on all the unloved ...

Morning coffee is my daily dose of defeat How’s that for pessimism? Still, I’ve stumbled out here to drink it Waiting upon the morning sunrise The same one which will rise over all ...

Hejtejp - evvvlina

The smoke from the valley billowed high in to the air, turning the sky into clouds of gray. For three days I walked down these tracks gathering all that I could carry, all the while avoiding drifting too deep into the outlining cities of what is now the desolate ruins of the city of angels. Instead I stayed near to the tracks only daring to leave them in the less ravished industrial parts of the cities I have past. Palmdale, Lancaster, Rosemond hell even Mojave has been ravished by the mobs of looters. But now standing in the hills near Tehachapi I knew it would be some time before I came across any means of supplies. Tired and worn I threw my pack down onto the railroad ties and pulled out a cigarette before sitting on top of it. Pulling my rag off of my face I breathed in the closest thing to fresh air I’ve had in weeks. Looking down the tracks I could still see the smoke rising from the flames of the valley I once new as home and thought to myself the world has surly come to end. Lighting my cigarette I took a deep gratifying drag and blew the smoke high into the sky, feeling an odd peace as I watch the cities of the world rain ash down upon me and thinking to myself that at least I lived to see the end. I put my hand in front of my face and admired at how the ashes from the sky had painted my flesh a light shad of gray. Taking another puff off of my cigarette I listened to the soothing sound of absolute nothingness. Not a car, not a voice, and not even a chirping bird broke the peace of my surroundings absolute utter silence. Only the feeling of the wind blowing through the hills on course to feed the valleys fires let me know that I was still alive. Then suddenly; as if to be a deliberate attempt to shatter my peace I heard a loud crash, followed by the sound of laughter from just above the ridge behind me. I held my cigarette until it burned my fingertips, listening intently for any other sounds to make sure that my mind was not playing tricks on me and then finally I heard it. It was a sound far greater than any Sinatra, any symphony and by god far greater than any religious Christian choir. Its was a choir of holy drunks singing R.E.M.’s song; ‘Its’ the end of the world as we know it.’

I grabbed my pack and flung it over my shoulders, trying desperately to climb the steep incline in an attempt to get on top of the ridge. Digging my fingers deep into the earth I pulled myself up fist by fist until finally I stood on top of the ridge and marveled at what it was that I saw. Like a mirage, I saw a ash covered saloon the reminded me of the old spaghetti western flicks I use to watch... but instead of horses lined up outside it was dust covered Harley’s and run down pick up trucks. I stumbled over to the bar disillusioned by its obscure place and by the thundering sound of bikers singing its the end of the world, only stopping to mumble the lyrics that nobody knows. I heard another loud crash and then witnessed a man being thrown from out of the front door of the bar. “GOD DAMN IT JEB! I told you if you gonna cry that you gotta do it outside, Damn it!” Said the man that threw him out. I looked at the size of the man who seemed to me to be more of beer belly giant covered in tattoos than anything else and started to think twice about going into the bar. He soon noticed me and in returning my hesitant stare I saw beneath his gray beard a kind smile form. “If ya here to drink and be merry this is the place to be, if otherwise kick rocks.” said the giant before turning back into the bar. I paused for a moment until finally I said to hell with it, knowing I had nothing else to lose. I walked past the man that had been thrown out as he sat on his knees, crying into the palms of his hand. Speechless, the man pulled his hands away from his face, revealing the streams of tears that had smeared his soot and ash covered face, leaving little streaks down his cheeks. With one hand he pointed to the bar and with the other he pointed to his head, rotating it to insinuate that the people inside the bar were crazy. Looking down on this ruined man I completely understood why it was they him threw out of the bar. In these times no one wants to be reminded of what was lost and that there may very well be no tomorrow. No, in these days there is only now and you best enjoy it for it might be your last. With this realization I no longer looked upon the man with pity but with disgust for trying to rob me of what little life I may have left to enjoy. So quickly I turned away from him and walked into the bar.

Once inside the bar the woes and worries the man had brought to me were instantly lifted. The crowd was crazed with a drunken high spirit. R.E.M.’s song had just ended and now Dolly Parton singing her song ‘Stand by your man’ blared through the jukebox. Underneath my breath I chuckled to myself saying if I was to die tomorrow I could die happy at just knowing that I witnessed 20 or 30 of the toughest bikers I have ever seen singing this song drunk and on the brink of tears. Brushing the humor aside I walked up to the bar and noticed that it was the giant I first saw coming into the bar who was serving drinks. “What are you havin’?” he asked. “Two shots of bourbon and one cold one.” “We ain’t got no cold beer but we got beer,” he said studying my face and waiting to see what my response was. “Warm is fine.” I replied firmly. “Good man, good man” he said pleased with my response. As the giant poured my shots and got me my beer I thought to myself how am I gonna pay this man. After all what good is money now days. But then again I have cartons of smokes I found and those are worth gold. When the bar tender returned with my beer I pulled out a pack of smokes and offered it to him, which he declined. Opening the pack I grabbed a fresh smoke and lit it. “I guess nowadays you can smoke in bars again?” I asked jokingly. “Sure as hell ain’t no law against it.” he said with a chuckle. “Well then if you wont take smokes then what do I owe you?” “ Its on the house.” “On the house?” I asked in a distrusting manner. “Like everything else, nowadays.” he said with a smile pointing out the window to the billowing smoke from the burning cities. Where the masses were looting all the overpriced shops and where the people were turning the house of the rich into charities for the poor. Well at last everything in this world was finally on the house I thought to myself and in knowing this I couldn’t help but smile. “Well in that case,” I said turning to the bartender, “Salude.” I picked up the shots and handed one to him. “Salude,” he said and then we both drank them down. in to the air, turning the sky into clouds of

J.C. Woolley - On the House

Crispy - Sleepy Whiskey Drinker

Yellowsubmarine - Thoughts


Penitent - Language
An ancient arboreal adventure, aggregated around awesome ash and Beautiful beech, beyond basic bounds built by bleeding, blemished Couples, cavorting carelessly, ceaselessly! Certainly cuckolds, Drama dripped down dreary distances, dissapointed, disillusioned, Eloping, ever encompassing everything! Erstwhile, elsewhere, Fingers, fronds, fumbling furiously for further filandering futures, Girls garnering games, gambles, giggling, gowns glittering, However, held herein hide huge, horrifying, horrendous, Issues, ignonimy. Irrespective intentions imagine illusions, Jumping, jeering, jesting. Just... just.... jittery, jilted, Kreening, krepuscular killers! Knowing, knocking, Lithe, litigious lilliputian lovers, lost, looking literally, Murderous! Moreover, masculin, muscular mountains, moving Now nearer! “Nevermore!” named numerous nubile nymphs, Overcome, overbeared of ‘orney, officious officers of Persephone, punctually performing previously procured Quibbles. Quite quadrapedal, quality quantifying quarantine, Repugant, resentful. Reeking rather, reeling round, remembering, Sycophantic systems subconsious. Set surrounding screaming Troglodtes, troubled throughout their tiny, trembling, Ubiqutious, unabridged utterings. Ugly! Unbearable! Vicious, vile. Vissituidal vengance vested, voreciferious! Without wit, wisdom. Wild weapons withering, Xenophobes! Xanthobic... xenarthra? You’re.... yammering? Yourself, you. Yoghurt? Zalophus? Zealously? Zanzibarian zebra? I’m afraid I don’t understand.


Golden - When I Was Seventeen

I was seventeen years, three months and two days old on 23rd October 1956, the day that I fell in love. I suppose I should count myself lucky really. But perhaps you should decide.

BehindBlueEyes - Point Reyes8

That year, I was living with my parents in Budapest. They were away on some important business in Paris at the time, leaving me alone in the house. It happened on the third day they were away: I heard rumours of police stations and libraries being taken over, not by soldiers but by ordinary people, students and people my age. And rumours were all I thought they were at first. But one story turned into many, and before long, everyone was talking about revolution. Crowds were parading through the streets, carrying flags and cheering. I needed to join in. I was taken along by one of the many groups streaming through the lanes of Buda and eventually deposited in Trinity Square by the town hall where there was a large gathering. I made my way into the building and was pressed into service making hot drinks and preparing food for the many groups that had made their way into the city from the surrounding countryside. It was an exciting time. We had freed our country from communism. And so it was, towards the end of that long and happy day passing out food, smiling and talking to anyone, that I saw him through the crowd. As I turned to him, he smiled and looked away. I carried on working and he surprised me, asking for something to eat, for something to drink and then for someone to kiss. He was confident. He told me of his part in the revolution: he made me laugh; and he made me cry. And he made me happy. He walked me home and then he kissed me. I must have dreamed of him that night because when I awoke I felt everything was going to be fine. But everything was not fine. There were more rumours, this time of the Russians returning with tanks. My parents had not managed to contact me. I met him at the town hall and we walked. He told me of his life, his large family, where he lived, how he loved the way I brushed my hair across my eyes, how I skipped when I wanted to catch up with him, and how he loved me. And over that couple of days, I fell in love with him. Then he wasn’t there. He left a message for me at the town hall. He had gone back to his village. He needed to see his family, to understand what was happening there. I waited. At the start of November, my family returned. They said we had to leave, that the Russians were coming. I went to his village and found his family. He had left, they said. To fight the Russians. They had tanks and he knew how to make Molotov cocktails. He was brave, they said. It was pointless, I thought. And I was sad. I left them my address in Paris. They told me they would give it to him when he returned. And I knew then that he would not. So here in Paris, I look at my husband: a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other. We have five children, and twelve grandchildren. And I suppose that I could count myself lucky. You can tell me. “You are lucky,” he says, looking sideways at me. I smile. And I know. I am lucky. I am lucky they told him he was too young to throw a Molotov cocktail. That he must count tanks instead and then go home. And I am lucky that his family gave him my address and told him to escape the country.

There are some advantages, but I don't want there to be. The funny thing about dyslexia is that Jodamme - Accepting Things normally - out of say, 6 measurements - half will show the dyslexic as surpremely disadvantaged, I think, in all future references, I should refer to and the other half will show them as this state as being 'projected by retrospect'. This above-average in terms of ability. These is a state which applies to all people to an extent, measurements are something like: handwriting, but is particulary noticable when discovered in memory, reading, speech, grammar and spelling. isolated elements of our character. Or maybe it's Because of that, some dyslexics actually have not, now that I think about it. I'm probably making incredible talents at memory, and some are more justifications, I'm expanding something small to than capable of consturcting sentences fluently. remove the personal - emotive - illogical boundries These two measurments are probably where I surrounding it. Making my relative clinical, when it diverge most though - although I'm really quite should be personal; hospitalising humanity, happy with my ability to construct writing clearly, sanitising sentience, and now I'm just producing my memory is my absolute weakest point. phrases that'd make perfect alternative rock album titles (albeit circa 1992-'94). It's not just a small thing to me, it's my whole world. I can't keep numbers or dates or even I think a lot of things are on my mind. But again, names in my short-term memory whatsoever. And, saying that, I feel like I'm more aware of this you know, I don't really tell a lot of people that, personal state-change through the absense of because it actually sounds incredibly scary to say features, rather than the surplus of symptoms it out loud. I feel like a complete freak, some sort (I believe this is known as negative diagnosing, of modern day memento character, and yet I know although in this sense it seems more like negative it's only half the story. Because the other half, and speculation). I believe this is incredibly important, is my emotional memory; this is strong, this is powerful, I haven't written in awhile, and for that I feel a and this saves my life. Names don't really matter creative backlog (such a beautiful phrase!) may be to me - I remember faces perfectly well - and most causing some slight disfocus to the topic at hand. importantly, I remember how they make me feel. A few days ago, at my university, I was diagnosed It's the emotional things - and I like to think that I with dyslexia and dyspraxia. Now, there are a have more appreciation for them than I'd have number of things which popped into my head - the otherwise if my head was boggled down with first being that, unlike some aquried ailment, technical details. Names will eventually come dyslexia is considered to be something which anyway, if I see the person very regularly. you've always had. The diagnosis is less about discovering it, more about revealing it; because of However, again, the two-sided nature of dyslexia this, it's hard to express personal mourning at the is apparant. My memory is actually extremely situation. Is mourning the right word? I think it is - I good at remembering situations, at remembering think part of self-acceptance is to honestly grieve expressions - movements, contacts, gestures. I when you encounter an unfixable, inherant can remember perfectly almost every house I've problem about yourself. Anything else can be ever been inside - the small details, the scratches changed, this can only be managed. on the green ping-pong ball board in the upstairs room. I can close my eyes and remember tiny Don't get me wrong: I'm well aware that dyslexia is details, things most people would miss, about a tiny thing in the grand scheme of human anywhere I've been. This is a skill I've only problems. But you know what, thinking like that recently begun to realize I have, and it's one I've doesn't help anyone; someone always has a just started to test more and more. A few nights larger problem, someone always has a worse life, ago, lying in bed, I closed my eyes and imaged someone always requires attention more than you walking around my old home, in America. It all shot do - it's a battle you can't win, so I won't even try. into my mind like a bullet, everything - it was Sometimes things are just personal, and that's all. brilliant, fantastic, and it made me cry slightly.

Coming to terms with all of this is taking time, and it's something I hope I'll be able to do. In small ways it's incredibly weird, but in others I'm starting to embrace it.

Natalie Kay - There Always


Taymaz Valley - Our Town

Our town is not big, Certainly not a big city. It’s not small either, No way a village. You might not think to look at it From the sky, or driving through, But you can find anything here, From a bag of weed to imported brew. We have all sorts in our town: Young and old; painters and poets; Wizards and Witches, High society and Pros. There is a sign welcoming all, And you’re sure to find a smile, A wave and a honk hello, or even A nod as you walk down the road. Our pubs are always full. Our clubs play the best music. Our street lights are always on, You’re sure to get a “mind how you go”.

There are lovers everywhere Our river has loveboats, So if you want to fall in love, You should give our town a go. It’s New Year all year round As merry nights unfold. You’ll never get too drunk, And it’s never too cold. We have no policemen, No criminals and Courts. No need to bring any money No one in our town is poor. Our town defies convention, You shan’t find it on any map. So, if you want to get here You just have to have faith in its existence. If you haven’t found it Don’t despair, just dream. Maybe you can build one of your own If you know what I mean.

Klarabella - Street

groups on tailcast

bunny army

Bunny Army L-R - AB Wadud / Tom / Jon / Oli


well the basic idea is to take the template: a2092f94260d8ff95.jpeg and draw / paint and whatever else anyone wants to do with it and post it on this web site either on the wall or as a picture with the tag ‘bunny army’ for me to use in my current project, I will then do something with them all and post it when I am finished which should be May sometime as that is my deadline. please make sure I know whose done what because I cannot use them otherwise thank you all you lovely people. it is also good fun and relaxing and just as an extra incentive I might give a little prezzy to my favourite one but don’t get too excited it will probably be something rubbish like a blank key or a comb, I might splash out and get a chocolate bar, and it would have to be light and small because I would probably have to send it to you. : D

Never interrupt someone doing what you said couldn’t be done. - Amelia Earhart

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