top of page













I recently completed my first novel, The Pigeon King.

The book explores the strangeness of living through grief and trauma. It's a darkly satirical coming-of-age story that switches between a recession hit present and a post-revolution dystopian future. I aim to independently publish it later this year.

Short Stories

I've been working on a collection of short works.

Staying Hungry was first published by Fleas on the Dog.

It is about trying to stay afloat whilst navigating the madness of motivational culture, it's best read aloud:

I’m flapping through the streets in my big, borrowed suit. Creases so sharp they could slice fruit. What I’m trying to say, is I’ll be your five-a-day. I’m used to working long hours for low pay. I’m the part in church that goes, ‘get on your knees, let’s pray.’ I’ve been cruising through job sites like a lonely missile. I’ve been turning out my pockets in the reduced aisle. Check out my LinkedIn profile. I took a selfie in front of a random yacht. I’m trying to say, I’m hot. I’m on fire. I’m sweating like a zoo. I’ve got a fever and there’s nothing I can do.


I’ve got the Old Spice lathered on like petrol on a BBQ. I’ve been prepping hard for this interview. I’ve been up all night. I’ve bleached my teeth ice white. On the first day the Lord said let there be light. And now here I am, fighting the good fight. I want to be your saviour tonight. I’ll be your sunshine. I’ll be your rain. I’ll be the vampire you invite inside again… 

Wow, even the slightest breeze causes my teeth inconceivable pain.

I play another clip from the motivational speeches: 

Hey, you, the mentor beseeches. Stop walking around so fuzzy. Straighten yourself! 

I’ll play it so straight that rulers will call me square. I can perform the most basic tasks with flair. I’m the person who sustains themselves on thin air. 

My mother said that you live your life for days like these. 

She also said, complacency is a disease. 

Hold my nose I think I might sneeze. I can’t sit still, I can’t settle. We are born ready to grasp the nettle. Show me the teabags, I’ll fill up the kettle. If you don’t keep active, you get sloppy. Get your bum on the machine, click photocopy. Think fast. Act fast. I’ll be the mail that’s delivered first class. Speaking of which, I’ve reached the address.

I spot my reflection in the tinted glass. I start repeating to myself: I’m feeling good, never better. It’s the greatest day of my life. I’m striving for gold. I’ve got genes so good they should be canned and sold. I’m Peter Pan, I’ll never get old. I’m more than resilient. I apply myself. I’ve got pragmatism. In fact, I think I metabolise optimism. I beat the iron filings to the front of the queue when they were giving out magnetism. To try harder than me would simply be masochism.

I’m ready.

The receptionist hands me a clipboard and a checkbox form, and I take it and I check it, and tick it, like I’ve been ticking boxes my whole life. 

I sling it back at her and stroke my quiff which is massive. Then I head straight into the interview room like a twitchy cowboy in a bandit saloon.

Yabba dabba do, I say, and I smack my rump so hard that all the windows burst open.

Relax, they say. 

I tell them, I’m as relaxed as a deflated balloon supping cocktails on an all-inclusive holiday. I’m ready moulded for your vacancy, it’ll be like cold custard slopped over a smouldering ashtray.

Just start by telling us what brought you here today.


Go to hell, I say. This is no time for pleasantry. Let’s get down to business, quit the foreplay. I don’t want to have to run the whole gamut. This is probably the best job on the planet. Of course, I want it. Just give it to me. I’m an XL tub of tenacity. I don’t listen to those who tell me what I can and can’t be. Naysayers don’t speak the same language as me. I make breakfast every morning, and every morning I slide it in the bin just to remain hungry. For me a job is a hobby. I’ll turn up to work so early that you’ll think I live in the lobby. You be Mummy, I’ll be Baby. I’ll pretend to work, and you pretend to pay me. 

Ok, we’ve heard enough, they say.

Bring home the bacon? I’ll bring you the whole farmyard. I’ll let you milk me. Just give me a lanyard… 

Suddenly, I’m being led out of the building by security, and tossed into the street.

Thankfully, my suit is so wide that I take off like an albatross made of burning paper. 

Let’s go champ!


My writing has also recently been included in the following publications:

Songs of Revolution by Sunday Mornings at the River Press 

The Poetry Lighthouse 

The Year Anthology, Crack the Spine 

A God Complex, Sculptorvox

Fauxmoir Literary Magazine 

The Writers and Readers’ Magazine


bottom of page