I come to you from a suspicious place of bright and warmth amidst a sea of lashing rain and skies of battleship grey (which is not a great colour to paint your walls.) Perhaps it might even be the last hurrah of summer before autumn finally trundles into town. But then again the weather is nothing if not contrary and fickle, it is an unpredictable beast, almost as if it is caused by the interaction of a complex series of ever-changing factors. That of course is ridiculous. Everyone knows that weather is caused by the wizard who lives atop your nearest mountain.

But as ever, I digress. I digress like unto a boss whose sole and single purview in life is and will always be digressing. To the matter at hand: Short stories. Short stories about a Junk Yard, based on the work of Kali Ciesemier.

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Number 36. Thirty Six. It’s not just a bus I didn’t like to get in my Uni days (they wanted exact change only.) This is the 36th time which the Pictonaut Challenge has sallied forth into the grimy, forgotten places of cyberspace. So this iteration will see the closing out of the third year that I’ve been doing this. That is not an inconsiderable span of years. For three whole years I’ve cranked out a horrid and wretched wordascope once and month, every month, without fail. It’s an achievement of sorts, an achievement which is now a vast sprawling behemoth of some forty seven and a half thousand words. So I think I’ve earnt the right to blow my own trumpet a little. But I won’t. Mainly because I don’t know how to play the trumpet. Also it sounds vaguely like a sex thing. Some how I’ve kept going, though I fear my creative juices may now be running low. I fear that I may have to go scrounging around in the Junk Yard.

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