Tag Archives: Richard Biddle

Vanaheim: ‘ Magic & Wonder’ 2/4′ The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

5 Jan

World Tree Norse

The Nine Realms

9 months, 22 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences

 

Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Vanaheim

Featuring:

Richard Biddle, Shirley Golden, Eleanor Perry

and Tom Murphy

 

Mjölnir*

by Richard Biddle

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I’m Blackjack, the splintering demon
I’m Crumble-Crunch, the shattering spirit
I’m Master-Batterer, the god spike
I’m The Convincer

I’m Bludgeon, the thump engine
I’m Bear-Down, the clobber bomb
I’m Nightstick, the pulveriser
I’m The Divine Beater

I’m Conk-Buster, the thrash contraption
I’m Fragmentize, the king of knock
I’m Quarterstaff, the wallop machine
I’m The Creator-Of-Dust

I’m Lord Cudgel, the blunt
I’m Boomerang, the whomper
I’m Father Pummel, the bang shape
I’m The Almighty Contraption

I’m Billy Battle, the whack gadget
I’m Cosh, the form persuader
I’m Finish-The-Job, the power pestle
I’m The Appliance-Of-Pain

I’m Hickory Wallop, the trouncing baton
I’m Break-Up, the holy apparatus
I’m Crush, the truncheon of defeat
I’m The Deity Mace

I’m Smash Being, the hammerer of all
I’m Gizmo Hit, the machine of strike
I’m Pounding Device, the fashioner of atoms
I’m The Demigod of Battering-Rams

I’m Tap-Tap-Tap, the all-knowing utensil
I’m Murder Mallet, the totem of kill
I’m Head Swatter, the staff of non-compliance
I’m The Absolute Club

I’m Drive-It-Home, the homicidal implementing machine
I’m Whatchamacallit, the idol of heavy
I’m Prime Mover, the omnipotent weapon of means
I’m Total Annihilation

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*Mjölnir is usually interpreted as meaning “That which smashes”, derived from the verb mölva “To smash” (cognate with English meal, mill); comparable derivations from the same root meaning “hammer” are Slavic molot and Latin malleus (whence English mallet).

An alternative suggestion compares the name to Russian молния (molniya) and the Welsh word mellt, both words are taken as meaning “lightning”. This second theory would make Mjölnir the weapon of the storm god identified with lightning, as in the lightning-bolt or vajra in other Indo-European mythologies.[4]

In the Old Norse texts, Mjölnir is identified as hamarr “a hammer”, a word that in Old Norse and some modern Norwegian dialects can mean “hammer” as well as “stone, rock, cliff”, ultimately derived from an Indo-European word for “stone, stone tool”, h₂éḱmō; as such it is cognate with Sanskrit aśman, meaning “stone, rock, stone tool; hammer” as well as “thunderbolt”.[5]

Mjøl in modern Norwegian (nynorsk) literally means “flour” or “powder”, so “Mjølner” (Norwegian spelling) can mean “Pulverizer” or “Grinder”.

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The Music-Speak of Kvasir

by Shirley Golden

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Born of Aesir and Vanir’s mouth-juices and truces, I am fashioned into this bone-cage, but no clothes quite fit. I’m sought far and wide, and I close my eyes and bear all burdens. I ponder predicaments, but only ever suggest and guide. For who am I to command another the best track to tread?

 The dwarfs invite me to their feast, and I accept in good faith. I sit at their tables of hammered gold. They mutter and lead me away from the merriment. They stab at my chest and heart; they collect three flagons of battle-sweat. They seal snug my mind-insight and take care not to brag of their prize. They stir in honey and make mead, creamy with music-speak, and they are so pleased with their hidden hoard. But such covetous pleasure is only ever short lived.

Now the giant, Suttung, keeps me, and his daughter, Gunnod, guards me. But she is seduced by Odin, and surrenders her secret stash. The wish-giver draws me into his food-cavern. And we take to the skies, soaring as an eagle over the mountains, and on to Asgard. Odin dives behind the stone-shield, but in his haste, a piece of me is expelled. He distributes my remains into assembled crocks.

The gods, aware of the spillage, deem it unworthy of retrieval: ‘the bad poets’ portion’ has no place in their realm. They discount the droplets as easily as a sprig of mistletoe, newly unfurled. They do not fret over the fate of the waste; for who would be foolish enough to use only the ill-conceived, unconsidered parts? But I yearn to draw the leakage back to my liquid heart.

It spreads, and stains, drips and trickles, flows and floods. With each age, it slops unchecked as ink spilled over page, print and screen. It streams into the lungs of new technologies where it is read, absorbed, given questionable gravitas. It seeps into the ether as dashed out titbits of text, words freely uploaded, dregs and haste; speak best not saved. The parts best served for poets’ growth. The parts best kept on the other side of the wall.

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2.

slick theory

by Eleanor Perry

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wolfhusks mock the pines the
scaly parts ] scrape out their
grit and jewel ] and bleached
thread is all that the mineral
will sing tricks for ] still the
quotas of star and stone are
only known in metrics ] or in
shrines.

they calculate the skin ] more
wolves and axes ] needles: this,
the latest speculation in reeling
particles ] til song or something
shudders from the pile ] to print
the value of each question ] oh
but there was so much heart
though

in the margins ] clay blue shells
worn and crashed like rubble
] in a lottery of constellation ]
wow, just look at how the carbon
scares ] plucked shimmering
from the balance sheet ] the
rockery ] to still the heart ] but
then, the heart is awkward.

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MP3 to come

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Vanaheim

by Tom Murphy

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inside the fence
as I hang
I remember I am my own little ghost

there is the wound
stitched up for now

there is the flagstone
beneath which lies molten rock
thick and limitless and orange

then there is the small empty thing
formless and light
and when certain words are spoken
I cough it up
but it leaves behind its emptiness
and the emptiness is a tiny speck of infinite burden
containing time and all the feelings of lost
as a reminder

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You can read the overview of Vanaheim here , and see some Asgard poems here

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Find out more about Richard, Shirley, Eleanor and Tom:

Richard Biddle

writings43.blogspot.co.uk

https://twitter.com/littledeaths68

Shirley Golden

shirleygolden.net

https://twitter.com/shirl1001

Eleanor Perry

https://twitter.com/nellperry

Tom Murphy

https://twitter.com/sandcave

 

As always, thank you for your interest.

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Asgard: ‘Warriors and Ravens’ 3/5′ The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

27 Nov

World Tree Norse

The Nine Realms

9 months, 22 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences

 

Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Asgard

Featuring:

Richard Biddle, Eleanor Perry,

Jim C. Mackintosh, Carol Robson

 

Mimir Speaks

by Richard Biddle

First you must become
your own assassin.

With the clarity of
a perfectly balanced
blade

and as easily as clouds
pass over an
unblemished sky,

cut through yourself.

Once severed from the
object of your body

you shall reawaken
into a deathless peace

and inside this
formless void
you will find a new voice
with which to speak.

As the me of your
memory melts,

like not quite white
fallen snow

laying bare
the groundless
ground

on which
all can tread
without trace,

know that
all you are
is the knowing
of knowing.


Now
look inwardly,
and see
there is no enemy
named he or she
there is no you
there is no me,
there is only
this perfectly
present moment.

And all
are headless.

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I take my inspiration from this extract found in, Kevin Crossley-Holland’s book ‘The Norse Myths’

“Odin took Mimir’s head and cradled it. he smeared it with herbs to preserve it, so that it would never decay. And then the High One sang charms over it and gave back to Mimir’s head the power of speech. So its wisdom became Odin’s wisdom – many truths unknown to any other being.”

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1.

Waste

by Eleanor Perry

Waste 1 jpeg

Waste 3 jpeg

Waste 2 jpeg

 

MP3 to come

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Asgard

by Jim C. Mackintosh

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Shh! Close your eyes.
Open your mind.

Do you believe?
Do you believe in the Gods?
In the Gods that surround you,
Embracing your thoughts, shaping your dreams
In the confused, nibbled edge of the rainbow
Brilliant, then at once dissolved into the clouds,
Lost to our perception but never ending, to bind
Its ribbon’d flames on to the lush plains of Asgard
Beyond our reach, unless you believe – do you?

Do you believe?
In the distance, those wise mountains, we hold in awe,
Yet they’re nothing more than the quarried odds,
For the walls of Asgard hewn from the depths by
The rock giant condemned by Thor’s mighty blow,
His skull scattered amongst the scree in fragments
Echoing in ravines and gulley’s at the thunderous
Crack of Mjollnir – the Hammer of Thor, the sparks
Of fury scored across our world as lightning.

Do you believe?
That gentle stroke of honeyed breeze
Out of nothing, brushing past our innocence
On a calm summer’s day – pulling at your senses,
Sleipnir has passed you quietly by – its silver mane
Catching your attention but for a moment – then gone
For Odin, his Master has business beyond our vision
In the lands of the Forgotten
In the Halls of the Slain – in Valhalla.

Do you believe?
Lost in the golden sparkle
Of a million tealights dancing
Across the rippled sea, to the horizon
Each one a teardrop lost from the curve
Of Freyja’s immeasurable beauty – a glimpse
Of her solitude, exposed briefly
To our mortal greed then gone
For Odin will not allow it – nobody
Holds the fragrant beauty of Freyja close but him.

Do you believe?
In the columned pines that tilt and moan
In the storms yet hold the weight of Asgard
Beyond our understanding – the waters
That seep as rain from the Well of Urd through
Clouds folding and masking the horizon
Which we cannot reach unless we believe
In the Realm of Asgard, in all of the Nine Realms
Bound in the sinewed embrace of Yggdrasill’s roots.

So, do you believe?
In the Gods that exist in you, that become you.
Open your eyes. Live in your mind.
Welcome to Asgard – where the journey begins.
The journey that never ends, unless your mind
Stops for breath, believe me, believe yourself.
We must go now.
We have far to travel.
Much has happened.
Much has yet to be remembered.
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Rainbow Keeper

by Carol Robson

(Heimdallr)

Born of nine
nourished in fertility
of thy mother earth,
washed – cleansed,
in wave after wave
of brine and blood.

Guardian gatekeeper,
ever watchful
in sight and sound.
Deceiver so big,
changing to, another RIG.
Nemesis for good,
this giant he stood.

Rainbow sentinel so proud,
bearer of horn, so loud.
His sword to flash
for enemies to crash.

Asgard protected down the ages,
depicted in so many pages.
In mythology, he’s in the A-list
Although in Stargate
he was a Geneticist.

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©Carol Robson 2014

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Heimdallr

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You can read the overview of Asgard here

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Find out more about Richard, Eleanor, Jim and Carol:

 

Richard Biddle

writings43.blogspot.co.uk

https://twitter.com/littledeaths68

Eleanor Perry

https://twitter.com/nellperry

Jim C Mackintosh

bigbaffy.com

https://twitter.com/JimCMackintosh

Carol Robson

carolrobson.com

https://twitter.com/Chakracaz

 

Watch out for more Asgard poetry next week!

As always, thank you for your interest. 

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‘Monsters and Rites’ Scratch 2/4: Transformations Poems (Book 14)

10 Apr

TRANSFORMATIONS

George Braque Metamorphoses

February 2013-March 2014

17 poets, 15 months, creating 1 contemporary reworking of Ovid’s Metamorphoses

See the Transformations Page for more details or the ‘Present Collaborations’ Tab

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Poems Inspired by Book 14

.Featuring:

Richard Biddle and Eleanor Perry

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A Spell

by Richard Biddle

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A Spell

 Please click for bigger image.

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Seventh

by Eleanor Perry

Seventh by Nell Perry Book 14

 

You can find more about Richard and Eleanor here:

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Richard Biddle

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Eleanor Perry

http://www.zonepoetrymagazine.com/

https://twitter.com/nellperry

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Tomorrow our  Weekend Showcase will feature poet Stephanie Brennan. Thank you, as ever, for your interest.
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‘Fates and Forces’ Wave 3/4: Transformations Poems (Book 13)

20 Mar

TRANSFORMATIONS

George Braque Metamorphoses

February 2013-March 2014

17 poets, 15 months, creating 1 contemporary reworking of Ovid’s Metamorphoses

See the Transformations Page for more details or the ‘Present Collaborations’ Tab

__________________

Poems Inspired by Book 13

.Featuring:

Richard Biddle

Transform(ed)

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The unearthly round mysteries address us now upon shores where we fist our pockets with running battles over spent matches.Tongue the rival’s sex without any insecurity. No being secures the famous juice on the budded realm of my sensitive muscle.

This being refused, only their arms are needed for the service, severed from their bodies by the only real moving blade. There is no heart rate, neither a daughter nor son for my own return of my children. Then rock a horse not a chair, see the fire on its own reaching me. The flames return to my arms, there is no spirit for the world of the miserable.

That we may rob a new flower or be seen to have finished our thievery of rose in every manner.

There, in the rise, as if no words could scarcely be, a fact of related meaning to my instinct. The relative and the no shape are so far for the letters of the reserves mighty function. They took what they reckon they needed and nothing ships filled the back of his refused mind. The return and no showing fed off their refused, locally made anagrams.

Take our rogue dreams away for no two are the same or come from there or reveal more. To be returned and to know now should fate turn on this received wisdom like my mood. Their result is a thing that now shoulders us, for here we are of and can receive, moreover, understand.

The open realise we are not supposing false ideas of lazy rigours between my lines. Thought results as a brain nurses its still imagination like fortune’s lost or of layers revealed in the midst of the mayhem. The forgotten remember to allow themselves not to snatch at murmurings from their own ranks or my improvisations.

The rewards are not strength enough for the other right in front of me that rows as I am now by the side from the hidden alphabet or the mortal remains of me. The result is that the arms not snatched or forced out, record who is murdered. Their raging altar is now snapped for favourable photographs of roofs of money. As to the remaining arms, not capable of seeing, they are fixed on the ransom mother.

The restrained and the number suffered a fate of royal pardon most heinous. The remains and the now should be feared. As our energy runs out my tattered and torn remain. Am I not scattering foreign nonsense upon the once upon a time rock mounting?

Then revenge is a joker not a scoundrel for the over confident rage mouth. Too far gone to be remembering as no sorrow is called for on this rosy morning. The right is left and a nodded smoke fogs on, resembling the made. The remembering is a name for the sun fight of which reeking is made. Their times to remember are no shape and the final of the removed mother. The rocky is a name for the sacrificial that stems from origin, from the moved.

Three run and the north stars are a fleet of reached and many. Them are the ruthless and nymph sisters fingers tap on the one reason mother. The rake and the spade are never placed on the single forehead or the returning mountain. The rock and the paper are not the same as the fiercer ocean, you will not regret me. The roaming are seeing the need to see for the offspring of rennet make eyes.

Those who raise assuredly are not sheep fleece on or from the rejecting mine, though we realise, as the never suspecting fled, that it was neither us or the rock that was massive. To create redness at the name we stopped putting it in, for out is more recently seen as might, till we reached a nearby voice that spoke to the fierce of the realm in myself.

The received and the nature of sin come flowing over as we remember the mind.

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You can find more about Richard here:

http://writings43.blogspot.co.uk/

https://twitter.com/littledeaths68

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Tomorrow you’ll find Weekend Showcase, featuring writer Shirley Golden and a short story she has written. Thank you for your interest.
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‘Centaurs and Rumours’ Whisper 1/3: Transformations Poems (Book 12)

12 Feb

TRANSFORMATIONS

George Braque Metamorphoses

February 2013-March 2014

17 poets, 15 months, creating 1 contemporary reworking of Ovid’s Metamorphoses

See the Transformations Page for more details or the ‘Present Collaborations’ Tab

__________________

Poems Inspired by Book 12

.Featuring:

James Knight and Richard Biddle

_

No Grounds

by James Knight

(Inspired by Rumour)

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No Ground by James Knight Book 12

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Book 12

by Richard Biddle

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You can find more about James and Richard here:

James Knight

https://twitter.com/badbadpoet

https://twitter.com/badbadpoet

Richard Biddle

http://writings43.blogspot.co.uk/

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‘Greed and Sorrow’ Swipe 3/5: Transformations Poems (Book 11)

22 Jan

TRANSFORMATIONS

George Braque Metamorphoses

February 2013-March 2014

17 poets, 15 months, creating 1 contemporary reworking of Ovid’s Metamorphoses

See the Transformations Page for more details or the ‘Present Collaborations’ Tab

__________________

Poems Inspired by Book 11

.Featuring:

 Richard Biddle and Rebecca Audra Smith

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In this swipe, here is something a bit different:

Transformations Book XI

by Richard Biddle

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Please click on the link below

Transformations Book XI 

To explain:

  • I photocopied book 11
  • Drew randomized patterns on each photocopied page
  • Hand-coloured each page with pencil crayon, leaving one part of the page uncoloured (this became the text)
  • Scanned it
  • Copied it into power point
  • *Recorded the text

*Unfortunately, for technical reason the sound is not available

Chione hawk daughter

by Rebecca Audra Smith

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Chione hawk daughter

They’ll be queuing up around the block
it was predicted by my mother
reading my fortune to me;

as I grew …………………………from youth to youth
………………………….I sprung the way
……………………………………….blossom trees bloom
……………………………………………………..into white petals
………………………….and quickly too
……………………………………….was I bent beneath
………………………….the weight of men
…………………………………………………….they filled me
……………………………………….with children
………….they consoled me
……………………….with compliments
……………………….gave me them
……………………………………………………the way
………….you give a rattle
……………………………………..to a snake
……………………………………………………I shook my beauty.

I declaimed myself
more gorgeous than Diana
sexier than Venus
a better lover than Juno
defiant I strutted
now

I am in flames on my pyre
watching my father
scorch his flesh to join me.

May he be turned to a hawk
and hack at the world’s pity.

How to kill Orpheus

by Rebecca Audra Smith

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Drown his song with stones,
with your own shout.
Grab what comes to hand-
rakes, sod from the earth, hoes.
Taste sweetness in the first blood,
rub it into your hands,
gulp at the oxen’s veins;
bring your pain to the hunt.

Let the stones weep,
Let the oak’s bark creep over your flesh.
Let there be clamour and crimson rock
Let the birds flock to our branching hands.

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You can find more about Richard and Rebecca here:

Richard Biddle

http://writings43.blogspot.co.uk/

https://twitter.com/littledeaths68

Rebecca Audra Smith

http://beccaaudra.wordpress.com/

‘Depths and Surfaces’ Glance 2/3: Transformations Poems (Book 10)

10 Dec

TRANSFORMATIONS

George Braque Metamorphoses

February 2013-March 2014

17 poets, 15 months, creating 1 contemporary reworking of Ovid’s Metamorphoses

See the Transformations Page for more details or the ‘Present Collaborations’ Tab

__________________

Poems Inspired by Book 10

.Featuring:

Nat Hall and Richard Biddle

_

Wild Vows

by Nat Hall

You don’t want to hurt me,
but see deep how the bullet lies*

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Before lone gods,
mice and strange priests,
we hunted down our wildest
vows,
I, da daughter of
nobody,
you,
the stringman
in love with chords…
But as we put words in a cage,
they grew feathers, talons and taste for
blood and flesh.
I carried mine on nameless hills,
through sly mires,
peat bogs,
cold swamps;
you long drowned yours
inside poison you always took for
night’s nectar, and
walked away,
………….walked away,
………………….. walked away.

No need to throw stones in the wind,
I walk though life with
brand new
drums.

©Nat Hall 2013

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*echo from Running Up That Hill, 2012 Remix, Kate Bush.

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Thoughtform (after Pygmalion)

by Richard Biddle

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Plagued with perfection, I create you –

A mockery of bones. Unknown to flesh and
toy-doll-smooth,
you are fruitlessly beautiful; an ivory womb.

You are the mummified dove, flawlessly carved
in the clotted veins of my limestone heart.

Those pumice lips, counterfeit and teasing,
despairingly manifested as a sad man’s plaything.

An unbecoming bloom.

Entombed in a fanatical psyche,
you are born of an impotent selfing.

A plastic fantasy .

No teeth, no nails, no tears, no hair
no voice, no perfume, no name.

An unblemished, numb dummy unyielding
no reflections.

My secret, my lover, my shame.

 

  

You can find more about Nat and Richard here:

Nat Hall

http://nordicblackbird.weebly.com/

https://twitter.com/nordicblackbird.

Richard Biddle

http://writings43.blogspot.co.uk/

https://twitter.com/littledeaths68

 

 

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