Welcome to the Teapot Nebula.

One Hundred Words. Infinite Worlds.

A small glimpse further into my mind, its a dark place with many cobwebs and often forgotten about. This blog was about drabbles, but has evolved into a few other random writings, or witterings when I'm not abandoning it alltogether for other crafty pursuits.

Monday, 15 October 2012


She shifted the pack, fingertips ghosting over weapons silently scanning the area around the house from the porch. “Blue, Ghost go.” She whispered to the dogs as she eased open the door. The scrape and clatter of nails on the wood floor deafening in the stillness. The dog ran into the house, ears pricked nostrils flaring. The first room was covered in dust; walls decorated in red flocked wallpaper and gilt framed pictures.  The dogs snuffled hunting in the rooms but no warning bark or shuffle or groan from rotting corpses too stupid to know they were long dead.  

Bookgroup drabble prompts: wallpaper and ghost

Monday, 20 August 2012


Down to a handful of bullets and four shotgun shells. Fantastic. Jackson grimaced and picked at the flocked wallpaper beside the boarded up window as Phoenix wandered in. ‘Find anything?’

‘Well...enough canned goods for a few days but no ammo. We have a can of extra firm hold hairspray, a lighter with a pin-up girl painted on it and a severe case of performance anxiety, a quarter bottle of peach schnapps, a pink aluminium baseball bat. Oh and a can of spam.’

‘So we get eaten by the obstinately deceased or bash our heads in with Barbie’s baseball bat.’ Excellent.

Book Group drabble prompt. Slightly Walking Dead and Zombieland inspired, my muse is mostly dead and buried but I dragged this out of....well I have no idea but it's the first thing I have written in months so it's better than nothing I suppose. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Tuesday, 17 January 2012


He sat down placing his hat on the table beside him and removed his six-shooter from its leather holster. A lamp burned warmly on the table of rough hewn pine, scarred and stained but still serving its purpose. Oil, rags and bullets sat on the table. He took the weapon apart piece by piece. His mind wandered over the past, the lives taken and saved with the same gun. He was no longer sporting tin. He left that life to rust in a grave beside a cabin and a skeletal tree. He lived a new life but some things remain.

book group prompt: Gunslinger.

Also a tiny bit of a Tin Man fanfic, Cain of course.