Error Flag

Writing has installed a debug routine in my operating system:

E1601  plot implausibility
E1602  flagrant grammatical disregard
E1738  structure defect
E1740  paper thin character development
E6700  runtime error

I click cancel and ignore it.

- Benjamin F Jones (From the archive 1999, written in Chris Torrence’ writing group in Cardiff)
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Llwyncelyn Hotel

Llwnycelyn Hotel

Llwyncelyn Hotel (Porth)

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Old Canal

The trees were arranged as shown in the diagram. The ambient air temperature was measured at 23°C. The sun was chosen as a light source and connected to a power supply. The resultant beam skimmed over the wetlands like a blade. Curled shavings of chatter were observed. The light source was then split between trees the colour of autumn. Objective readings showed light arrived in discrete packets – choosing a slit between the trunks then settling on a destination dependent upon observation. Refracted light on the still surface of the canal tunnelled between lily-pads. A family picking blackberries were told, ‘We are lost like a marble in a bedroom’. Their laughter was measurable and caused discrepancies in results – they had a mass of three humans including bowls and light scattered off their lips as they talked about roasted beach nuts. Measurements were taken at ten second intervals until we reached a point where the lock gates were rotted away. Water flowed over obstacles that were no longer there. Iron cogs were detected – partially obscured by mud. The reflections of ducks were found to be clearer than the objects.

- Benjamin F Jones
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Wesleyan chapel Reflection

Church reflection in blue

Church reflection in Porth (Artstation)

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Dither at a crossroads

The motorway is half asleep and I’ve driven through the night on late night radio and coffee. My mind invents images to fill in the blanks and I’m past the accident before I wake. Through the side window a faceless woman cries next to a car with no wheels. A policeman holds a baby, I cannot tell if it’s living or dead. The wipers make an arc and the nightmare is swept into subconscious. Wheels hiss. At home the door has too many hinges and locks. I step into a porch that ferments with boots and darkness trips my feet. Suddenly the image of the woman clots in my throat like broken glass and sugar. Should I call someone? I dither at a crossroads I can’t even define as the sky turns the colour of petrol.

- Benjamin F Jones
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